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THE HOUND OF CULAIN 


By Alan Michael Buck 


MY SAINT PATRICK 

THE HOUND OF CULAIN 

WHEN I WAS A BOY IN IRELAND 























































































































































































LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD 

COMPANY 








Ho 


L o 


Copyright 1938 


BY LOTHROP, LEE AND SHEPARD COMPANY 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be 
reproduced in any form without permission in writing 
from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes 
to quote brief passages in connection with a review 
written for inclusion in magazine or newspaper. 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


©CI A 



118573 


Dedicated 

to 

William and Dermot O’Grady 










PREFACE 


This is the tale of Cuchulain, famed Irish hero. 

Cuchulain means, “the Hound of Culain” and is 
pronounced, Cu-hull-an. 

Cuchulain has been compared both to the Achilles 
and Apollo of the Greeks. The truth is he was more 
virile and certainly more human than either of 
those two divinities. Indeed, it may very well be 
said, that Cuchulain is an historical rather than a 
mythological character. Writing of him in his 
preface to The Coming of Cuchulain, the great 
Gaelic writer, Standish O’Grady, says, 

“Cuchulain and his friends are historical char¬ 
acters, seen as it were through the mists of love 
and wonder, whom men could not forget, but for 
centuries continued to celebrate in countless songs 
and stories. They are not literary phantoms, but 
actual existences; imaginary and fictitious charac¬ 
ters, mere creatures of idle fancy do not live and 
flourish so in the world’s memory.” 

But whether historical or purely mythological 
Cuchulain was a valiant, chivalrous and truly lov¬ 
able young man and if I, in the ensuing pages, have 
been able to present him as such I have accom¬ 
plished my task. 


ix 


CONTENTS 


Part One 

THE BOYHOOD DEEDS OF CUCHULAIN 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I Dechtire’s Wedding Feast . . .17 

II The Birth of Cuchulain . . . .21 

III Setanta and the Boy-Corps . . .31 

IV The Hound of Culain .... 45 

V Cuchulain Takes Up Arms ... 56 

VI Cuchulain Accepts a Challenge . . 64 

VII The Fate of the Sons of Nechtan Sceine 74 
VIII The Hero Returns.83 


Part Two 

THE WOOING OF EMER 


IX Cuchulain Visits Emer .... 93 

X The Ambassador. 101 

XI Adventure in Scotland . . . .104 

XII Monster of the Deep . . . .113 

XIII Emer Beset. 117 

XIV Cuchulain’s Chapter . . . .127 

XV Cuchulain and Devorgil . . . .137 

XVI The Winning of Emer . . . .144 

xi 








Contents 


Part Three 


THE CHAMPION’S PORTION 


CHAPTER 

XVII 

Bricriu’s Feast. 

PAGE 

153 

XVIII 

The Giant in the Lush Meadow . 

163 

XIX 

At the Court of Ailill and Maeve 

170 

XX 

The Three Cups. 

179 

XXI 

The Stronghold of Cu Roi macDairi . 

183 

XXII 

In Which the Champion’s Portion Is 
Awarded. 

194 


Part Four 

THE PASSING OF CUCHULAIN 


XXIII 

The Occasion of the Cattle Raid of 
Cooley ....... 

203 

XXIV 

The 

Fight with Ferdiad 

210 

XXV 

The 

End of the Raid .... 

220 

XXVI 

The 

Beginning of the End . 

226 

XXVII 

The 

Passing of Cuchulain . 

235 


• • 
XU 



“Keep in your souls some images of mag¬ 
nificence so that hereafter the halls of 
heaven and the divine folk may not seem 
altogether alien in spirit.” 

7E 











Part One 


THE BOYHOOD DEEDS OF CUCHULAIN 













CHAPTER ONE 
Dechtire’s Wedding Feast 


It is not enough to say Cuchulain was born on 
such and such a day at such and such a place in 
Ireland. We must first relate the strange events 
leading up to his birth if we are to know properly 
the exciting story of his life. To do this it is neces¬ 
sary that we journey back nearly two thousand 
years and visit Emain Macha, the seat of the kings 
of Ulster. A good king sat on the throne in those 
days. Conchubar was the name on him; Conchubar 
macNessa. In the days of his reign he did much 
to further learning and the arts. It is told of him 
that he was born the day Jesus was born and that 
he died of grief on hearing of the Crucifixion, albeit 

17 





































18 


The Hound of Culain 


he was ever a pagan. Important to us is the fact 
that he was destined to become Cuchulain’s uncle. 

Properly speaking, our story begins with the 
banquet King Conchubar gave at Emain Macha one 
time in honor of his sister Dechtire’s wedding with 
the chieftain Sualtim macRoig. This banquet was 
really a brilliant affair. Royalty, nobility and great 
landowners attended from all over Ireland. Famous 
poets, bards and declaimers of the laws of the land 
furnished the entertainment. The tables were heavy 
laden with scrumptious things to eat. Slaves hur¬ 
ried to and fro with more and still more delicacies. 
Cupbearers served mead as if that heady wine 
were water. Bondmaidens danced attendance on 
the ladies. In short, it was a feast worthy of the 
joyous occasion. 

Seated at a table surrounded by her fifty hand¬ 
maidens, Dechtire was truly a beautiful bride. She 
wore a soft flowing, white silken robe, girdled at the 
waist with an emerald chain. Her hair was parted 
in the middle and two black, lustrous braids hung 
down to her waist. Pricelessly bejewelled with 
rings were her thin, tapering fingers and adorned 
with amulets her soft, rounded arms. Taken all in 
all, her appearance was that of a princess which, 
of course, she was, being sister to King Conchubar. 

Ah Dechtire, little did you dream and you in 
your sweet sitting midst your beauteous hand¬ 
maidens, that by sunset you would wear the plumage 
of a bird! 



Dechtire's Wedding Feast 


19 


And in this strange way it came about! 

At the height of the feasting and merriment, 
Dechtire swallowed a mayfly that flew into a gob¬ 
let of mead she was drinking and she began to 
cough. A bondmaiden patted her on the back to 
relieve her. But that seemed to make her cough 
the more. She coughed and she coughed. Tears 
started to her eyes. She was almost choking. Thor¬ 
oughly alarmed, her handmaidens led her away to 
rest and recuperate in her sunny parlor. There, 
on a sun-drenched couch with playful sunbeams 
dancing all about, she presently fell into a deep 
slumber. How long she slept she had no idea. But 
when she awoke, it was to find a handsome, princely 
youth standing beside her couch, gazing lovingly 
into her startled eyes. Where had he come from? 
Seemingly out of nowhere. And what was he say¬ 
ing? 

“I was the mayfly you drank in your mead, 
Dechtire. I am Lugh son of Kian.” 

Lugh son of Kian! The Sun-god! Dechtire was 
filled with awe. What could the Sun-god want of 
her, who had been so modestly retiring, and unde¬ 
siring of attention? 

This:—and these were his very words—-“I love 
you, Dechtire and you must come away with me 
now; you and your fifty handmaidens.” 

What could Dechtire do? Before she could cry 
out or gainsay him in any way, he had changed her 
and her handmaidens into a flock of delicately 



20 


The Hound of Culain 


plumed birds and was leading them out the window 
and off to the home of the fairies in the Mound of 
Angus on the banks of the river Boyne. 

Alas for the wedding feast! The awful truth was 
soon discovered. Dechtire, the bride, had vanished. 
Where she had gone or how none could tell. Fastly 
a funeral air pervaded the banqueting hall. King 
Conchubar, Sualtim macRoig, the guests, all were 
filled with dread forebodings. They began to keen 
their grief. Ulster never echoed so mournful a 
sound before nor since. 




CHAPTER TWO 
The Birth of Cuchulain 


Three years passed, three weary years, and still 
Dechtire did not return. Hope that she ever would 
had long since been dissipated. Her loved ones had 
even made up their minds to try to forget her. They 
feared her dead; lost to them forever. 

But then one bright day when the sky was flax- 
blossom blue all over and the sun shone down pal¬ 
ing the deep green of the grass with its golden rays, a 
flock of fifty birds alighted in the fields round the 
palace and as if by preconceived plan began to claw 
the ground and uproot the crops. Several attempts 
were made to drive them away. All failed. They 
would fly a perch or two away and come back again. 
At length King Conchubar was appealed to. Would 
he drive out with some of his warriors and put the 
birds to flight or kill them; one of the two? 

Hastily ordering nine chariots yoked and manned, 
King Conchubar sallied forth. Nine chariots charg¬ 
ing are a thrilling sight. But the birds, seemingly 
frightened by the noise, took to wing, flying fastly 
southward. Undaunted and wishful for revenge, 
King Conchubar lashed up his horses and led his 

21 






22 


The Hound of Culain 


warriors in pursuit. Across mountains, over plains 
and splashing through rivers, they went; the hooves 
of the horses thudding thunder, the over-heated 
axles screaming as if with pain, the wheels rumbling 
alarmingly, but always the birds led the way. It is 
significant that they were heading for the Boyne. 
By the time that historic river was sighted, however, 
night was falling fast. In a last desperate effort to 
come up with their quarry, King Conchubar and his 
companions urged their horses forward with cries 
and lashings. But it was no use. Almost before they 
realized it, they were enveloped in darkness and the 
birds had dropped from sight. With a sigh of disap¬ 
pointment, King Conchubar cried halt. It would 
have been futile to go on. 

“Unyoke,” said he. “And you, Fergus macRogh, 
you go in search of a lodging for the night. ’Tis 
too late to think of returning to Emain Macha and 
the horses are in a lather and tired out.” 

Now, Fergus macRogh was the chief warrior of 
Ulster. He had been king before Conchubar and 
feared was he throughout the land. Let us accom¬ 
pany him, therefore, on his quest. 

Stepping out warily for fear of rabbit holes and 
tree roots, and skirting the dark and ominous line 
of pinewoods on his left, he soon found himself at 
the head of a bohereen. Where there’s a bohereen 
there’s a house, thought he, turning down it. Sure 
enough. Presently, he saw in the distance a wee 
biteen of a house with a light burning in the window. 



The Birth of Cuchulain 


23 


He quickened his step. The light was such a glad¬ 
some sight. A dog barked as he drew near. A 
moment later, the door to the wee biteen of a 
house was thrown open and a man’s voice called 
out, “Who’s in it at all at all at this hour?” 

Fergus stepped forward. With half an eye he 
could see that he had stumbled across the abode of 
a poor peasant and his wife. As soon as he made 
himself known, the man invited him in. 

“You’ll have a bite to eat maybe?” said he. 

But hungry as he was, Fergus protested that he 
could not eat without his companions. Whereupon, 
the woman said, “Go get your friends then and al¬ 
though we be poor as can be it is we that will share 
and gladly what little we have with you.” 

“Faith,” replied Fergus, “ ’tis the good, kind 
people you are whoever you are.” And with that 
for his thank you, back with him in his steps. 

King Conchubar was well pleased to see him re¬ 
turn so soon. “What luck?” cried he. 

“I have found a peasant that will take us in.” 

“Good,” said King Conchubar. He was not above 
spending the night in humble surroundings when 
the occasion called for it. 

Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for his 
companion, the chieftian Bricriu of the Bitter- 
Tongue. Said he, “O king, what would we be doing 
in so humble a place? We would have to be sleep¬ 
ing in our tall standing like as not and without cov¬ 
ers and the bit we would get to eat . . 



24 


The Hound of Culain 


“Have done!” thundered King Conchubar. “We 
named you well when we named you Bitter- 
Tongue. Let you stay here if you are too high and 
mighty to come with us.” 

Before Bricriu could find words to reply, all had 
departed and he was left alone. 

Ah, it was then he regretted his hasty words in 
earnest! The thick darkness, the awful velvety 
stillness of the night weighed on him, frightened 
him. He became full of fears, fears that magnified 
themselves into colossal demons fearful of aspect, 
towering satanic shadows that threatened his very 
existence. Faced with the prospect of losing his 
mind or pocketing his pride, he choose the latter 
and almost at a run and with heart beating loudly, 
went in search of the wee biteen of a house. But 
really he felt that the search would be quite in vain. 

Strange! Very strange! He had gone but a few 
steps when right in his path, he beheld a magnificent 
mansion, a veritable palace with a light burning in 
every window and a handsome, princely youth in 
his standing by the open door. 

“Fergus must have sties on his eyes to have passed 
by this place,” he muttered to himself. 

“Come in, let you and welcome,” invited the 
handsome, princely youth. 

“Welcome indeed,” called out a fair, young 
woman from the shadows of the hallway. 

Wondering at the strength of the welcome put 
before him—after all he was a total stranger— 




The Birth of Cuchulain 


25 


Bricriu made bold to ask the handsome princely 
youth who he was. 

His question went unanswered. 

“Is there anybody missing from you up Emain 
Macha way?” inquired the handsome, princely 
youth. 

Bricriu was startled. He hadn’t said that he came 
from Emain Macha? How then was it known? 

“Well, is there?” The handsome, princely youth 
was repeating his question. 

“Anybody missing is it?” Bricriu collected his 
rudely scattered wits, and suddenly remembering, 
“That there is!” he cried. “Dechtire and her fifty 
handmaidens are gone from us these three years.” 

The handsome princely youth smiled. “Would 
you know them again if you saw them?” he asked. 

Bricriu hesitated. “Know them?” he advanced 
haltingly. “If I would not know them it would be 
because the years have changed them.” 

“The years have passed them by.” The voice of 
the handsome princely youth held an authoritative 
ring. 

“What—what’s that you do be saying?” 

“That was Dechtire herself that greeted you 
from the hallway just now. Moreover, it was her 
handmaidens that went as birds to Emain Macha 
to lure the men of Ulster here.” 

Bricriu’s eyes were balloon-like. “And—and who 
are you?” he stammered. 

“Me?” The handsome princely youth shrugged 



26 


The Hound of Culain 


his shoulders as if he were of no importance. “I am 
Lugh, son of Kian.” 

And it was at that very moment that Dechtire 
stepped out from the shadows of the hallway and 
revealed herself. Bricriu recognized her at once. 
Lugh, son of Kian, had not lied. She was as beauti¬ 
ful as ever. On her arm he saw that she carried a 
purple cloak adorned with gold fringes, a very 
beautiful and costly garment. Great was his sur¬ 
prise when she presented it to him with with these 
words, “This is my gift to you, Bricriu, and now 
you must find King Conchubar and bring him 
here.” 

But first Bricriu had to pinch himself to make 
sure he was awake and not dreaming. Then, “King 
Conchubar is somewhere hereabouts,” he said. “I’ll 
get him for you.” And donning his new cloak he 
started out forthwith. 

What passed in Bricriu’s mind on that short 
journey to the wee biteen of a house? What in¬ 
deed, but this. For reasons best known to himself, 
he decided not to tell King Conchubar he had found 
Dechtire and her handmaidens at all. He would 
but say he had found a house full of beautiful 
women and let it go at that. Could it be that he 
wished King Conchubar to have the pleasure of 
finding out who they were for himself? Perhaps. 
Still such a generous impulse was hardly in keep¬ 
ing with Bricriu’s character. Bitter of tongue in¬ 
deed was he and a mischief-maker of the first water 
as we shall see later on. 



The Birth of Cuchulain 


27 


Coming at length to his destination, he found he 
had to bend himself nearly double to get through 
the low door of the wee biteen of a house. 

“A botheration on you all! ” he exclaimed by way 
of greeting. 

“If that is all you came to say, we can do with¬ 
out it,” growled King Conchubar. 

“A double botheration on you,” blustered Bri- 
criu. “ Twas left to me to find you a house full of 
beautiful women this night.” 

A smile slowly replaced the nettled look on King 
Conchubar’s face. “If you have done that same 
you have done enough for one man,” he granted. 
“Where is it?” 

“Follow me and I’ll be showing you where.” 

His invitation was accepted with alacrity by 
one and all. Having richly rewarded the poor 
peasant and his wife, they left at once. 

Yes, the mansion was still there and the door 
was open as before. Lugh son of Kian was not by 
it though, nor was he anywhere to be seen. In a 
body, they went in. A slave led them to the ban¬ 
queting hall where a splendid feast awaited them. 
We may be sure they did it justice. But as time 
passed and the women failed to put in an appear¬ 
ance, King Conchubar felt himself constrained to 
ask where was the mistress of the house. 

“You cannot see her tonight,” he was told. “She 
is taken to bed with child.” 

“Oh.” King Conchubar nodded his head under¬ 
standing^. “That being so we may as well retire.” 



28 


The Hound of Culain 


And that is what they did and they slept well 
and soundly albeit they were in strange beds of 
which ’tis said, you never get any rest the first 
night. 

In the morning King Conchubar was up early. 
He planned to leave at once for Emain Macha. 
Still, it hardly seemed polite to go without thank¬ 
ing his hitherto unseen hostess. But where to find 
her? The house was morgue-like of stillness; not 
even the servants were stirring. Suddenly, he heard 
a baby cry out. The fretful sound came from a 
room to his right. He paused a moment, unde¬ 
cided. Then he knocked. 

“Come in,” bade a strangely familiar voice. 

He opened the door. 

Lo, there on a couch lay Dechtire; a tiny baby 
to her breast. 

King Conchubar was so overcome, he could not 
speak. In a dazed sort of way, he crossed the room. 

“Dechtire!” he managed at last. “Dechtire! is it 
yourself is in it at all at all?” 

Dechtire’s eyes welled up with tears of love. 
“Come sit close beside me, brother mine,” she 
whispered. “I have so much, so many things to 
tell you.” 

In a timid worshipful way, King Conchubar 
seated himself on the edge of the couch. 

And in a voice filled with the music of mother¬ 
hood, Dechtire began to speak. “I am the be¬ 
loved of the Sun-god. The mayfly I drank in my 



The Birth of Cuchulain 


29 


mead was he. He spirited me away on my wed¬ 
ding day. Here came we to the Mound of Angus, 
my handmaidens and I. As birds we came and our 
flight was swift and unwavering. Here we have 
lived and here now have I borne my child,” and 
she caressed the babe. 

“But why have you sent for me?” gently asked 
King Conchubar. 

Dechtire paled. She knew this question was in¬ 
evitable. Yet she dreaded it. Still, she must re¬ 
main firm in her resolve. She must! She must! 
Leaning over, she laid her baby in the arms of 
her brother. “You must take him away with you,” 
she sobbed. 

“Away with me?” King Conchubar knew not 
what to say. He was bewildered. 

“I want him to grow up among mortals,” Dech¬ 
tire explained vainly trying to stop the flow of her 
tears. “It is foretold that he will grow great among 
men, that his name will be spoken in hushed whis¬ 
pers wherever warriors foregather.” 

Wonderingly, King Conchubar dropped his eyes 
to the little mite nestling in his arms. A tear stole 
down his stubbled cheek. Too well now, did he 
realize why Dechtire had sent for him and the 
great sacrifice she was making. She belonged ir¬ 
revocably to the Sun-god. Having dwelt with him 
in the twilight world, she herself could never re¬ 
turn to Emain Macha. Nevertheless, she wanted 
him, her brother, Conchubar, King of Ulster, to 



30 


The Hound of Culain 


have her baby. “Dechtire,” he promised, and his 
voice was choked with emotion, “Dechtire, I will 
cherish him as I do my own boy, Connal. Our 
sister Finochem will foster him and let the plain 
of Muirthemne be his inheritance.” 

Dechtire wept her gratitude. 

The anguished parting that followed . . . But 
no! No! Let that parting be forever sacred to 
those whom it concerned. We know enough for 
the purpose of our story. Dechtire’s son, as our 
reader has doubtless guessed, was Cuchulain. We 
have but this to remember, his name at first was 
Setanta. How it was changed and why, we shall 
presently discover. 




# 

i 




CHAPTER THREE 
Setanta and the Boy-Corps 


Several years have elapsed since the events 
related in the previous chapter took place. We 
have neither time nor space, nor is it imperative 
that we take cognizance of all the changes wrought 
by those years. King Conchubar, to be sure, is 
still King of Ulster. Dechtire continues to reside 
with the Sun-god. For the rest, all the characters 
we have met are still alive and will crop up again 
from time to time. Let us therefore confine our¬ 
selves for the present to noting minutely the new 
status of our hero. We have left him an infant. 
We meet him now, a manly little lad living with 
his Aunt Finochem on the great plain of his in- 

31 

























32 


The Hound of Culain 


heritance, the forest bound plain of Muirthemne. 

So far his upbringing his been entrusted to his 
nurse, Detchaen. Detchaen has taught him of her 
knowledge and instilled in him the necessity of 
being honest and clean of body and mind; too, she 
has whiled away many an idle hour, telling him 
stories of the ancient heroes and, unwittingly per¬ 
haps, inflamed him with the desire to emulate those 
fierce warriors. 

In appearance, he is a worthy son of the Sun- 
god. He is handsome, tall for his age and well¬ 
muscled. His head of hair, had Samson had it, 
Delilah would fain have stayed her hand; ’tis of 
the gold of the stars and the moon over the river 
and of a texture finer than the silken wrap that 
snugly swathes the pearl-toothed ear of corn on 
its cathedral stem. At first glance it would seem 
that his cheeks are set with jewels. The emerald 
sparkles there, the ruby, the topaz and the balais. 
A closer inspection reveals them as differently 
hued dimples and one cannot help but marvel at 
their beauty. Nor must we overlook his seven fin¬ 
gered hands and as many toed feet, his blue eyes 
suffused with seven lights, his brave, fearless car¬ 
riage—head up, shoulders back, chest out—and 
his smile which is like nothing so much as an In¬ 
dian summer day, being warm and friendly, sharp- 
etched yet soft and melting. To condense, he is a 
princeling. 

Meeting him now, we find that despite his ex- 





Setanta and the Boy-Corps 33 


cellent physical fortune, he is somewhat discon¬ 
tented with his lot. He feels that the time has 
come for him to be less dependent on Detchaen. He 
is growing up. He is getting too old for a nurse, 
he believes. Besides, he has heard tell of the Boy- 
Corps at Emain Macha and secretly longs to join 
it. 

As the Boy-Corps may be unknown to our reader, 
we shall say here that it was a band of noble 
youths, the sons of the warriors and chariot chiefs, 
that attached themselves to King Conchubar’s 
court. Young though they were, they were famed 
far and wide for their deeds of daring and great 
skill at the game of hurling; a game yet our na¬ 
tional pastime; one of the few remaining links left 
to us of our glorious past. To belong to the Boy- 
Corps, you had to be of noble if not of royal blood 
and you had to submit to the Corps as a body and 
place your life under its protection so that if any 
ill befell you at the hands of an enemy you would 
not go unavenged. 

Wholly unaware of the conditions of member¬ 
ship, as we shall see, Setanta dreamed night and 
day of nothing else. Two things stood in his way. 
He was at Muirthemne; the Boy-Corps at Emain 
Macha. The distance between the two places was 
considerable. Then there was his Aunt Finochem. 
Would she give her permission? He could but ask 
her. 

“Tell me about the Boy-Corps, Aunt Finochem,” 



34 


The Hound of Culain 


he pleaded one day, hoping to lead up gradually 
to the matter. 

But his ruse was not at all successful. His aunt 
saw at once what was in his mind. “You are not 
old enough to join the Boy-Corps, Setanta,” she 
replied. 

“It is not years but skill and bravery that count 
with the Boy-Corps/’ Setanta protested. 

“For all that, you cannot go/’ denied his aunt. 
“ ’Tis a faraway place Emain Macha is. ’Tis past 
Slieve Fuad so it is and what would your Uncle 
Conchubar say to me for letting you go alone on 
such a long journey?” 

“Is it east or west of Slieve Fuad it is?” Setanta 
persisted. 

“West.” 

Setanta said not another word. His aunt thought 
that he had yielded with very good grace. But when 
she went looking for him later in the day, he was 
nowhere to be found. She could have bitten her 
tongue off then for telling him Emain Macha was 
west of Slieve Fuad. 

For an ordinary boy of seven to have attempted 
the journey from Muirthemne to Emain Macha 
would have been an act of madness, a locura to 
borrow a term from the Spanish. It was every 
last step of thirty miles and there were hills to 
cross and rivers to ford and forests to pass through; 
dark forests, the tops of whose trees spreading 



Setanta and the Boy-Corps 35 


fanwise formed a roof through which daylight 
dared not penetrate, and there were wild beasts 
lurking in the thickets; wolves and the like. 

But let us deal solely with Setanta who was not 
an ordinary boy. 

On leaving home of his own volition, he had 
with him his hurling stick, his silver ball, a minia¬ 
ture dart and spear both of which had been espe¬ 
cially cast for him, and his shield that he wore 
strapped to his back. Passing safely—guided by the 
gods, no doubt—through the forest bounding the 
plain, he hit the main road out of the Ford of the 
Hurdles, through Muirthemne, to Emain Macha. In 
Gaelic, the Ford of the Hurdles is called, Ath-a- 
cliahy or more recently, Baile-a-cliah, the Town of 
the Hurdles. We mention this in passing because 
it is the Dublin of today. Once on this road, Setanta 
began to shorten the way for himself, by belting 
his ball out before him with his hurling stick. 
Then he would run after the ball and catch it be¬ 
fore it fell. Later on, he varied this by throwing 
his stick after the ball and his spear after the stick 
and his dart after the spear and catching the lot 
before they even bounced. In this original way, 
he managed to put the miles at his two heels so 
soon as they met his fourteen toes. In what seemed 
no time at all, he passed Slieve Fuad on his left 
and soon afterwards Emain Macha presented itself 
to his admiring gaze. 

Since we shall have occasion to dwell on Emain 



36 


The Hound of Culain 


Macha at some length later on, we shall eschew 
it for the moment and stick close to Setanta. See, 
he has already seen the Boy-Corps hurling on the 
lawn. Imagine his delight. Why man, it gave him 
all he could do to keep from joining them! But 
that would not have been the right thing to do— 
burst in uninvited. So he stood on the sideline, 
an eager spectator; inwardly hoping, of course that 
he would be asked to play. 

Ochone! weirasthru! No one paid any attention 
to you, did they Setanta? And your spirits sank 
way down to your sandals. And by-and-by a tear 
or two stole down your dimpled cheek; small blame 
to you, lad. It was humiliating to have come so 
far, to have run away from home for the express 
purpose of joining the Boy-Corps, only to be ig¬ 
nored. But cheer up, let you now. See, there is 
the ball coming towards you over the line. It is 
out of play. Hit it a whack. This is your chance. 

With admirable slow deliberateness, he drew 
back his stick and the clout he fetched the ball 
was the mother of all clouts. Oh yes, it was. High, 
way up into the air it soared. Had he rested con¬ 
tent with this all might have gone well. But sure 
he didn’t! His blood was up. He followed the 
ball onto the lawn where he had no business. By 
that time some of the Boy-Corps had raced up. 
But Setanta was in there before them. Catching 
the ball on his stick as it came down, he drove it 
along before him, never letting it rise above his 



Setanta and the Boy-Corps 37 


knee nor fall below his shin. (A difficult and bril¬ 
liant feat as any hurler will tell you.) Angrily, 
the Boy-Corps lashed out at him. ’Tis a great won¬ 
der he was not cut clean in two halves, so it is. 
That he escaped at all was due to his superior 
speed which now brought him directly in front of 
the north goal. As the Boy-Corps rushed him, he 
up with his stick and WHAM!—the ball sped be¬ 
tween the posts. 

His eyes sparkling his triumph, he turned and 
faced the Boy-Corps. My, but they were furious! 
Their eyes blazed unadulterated hostility. And the 
names they called him!—clodhopper, interloper, 
wiseacre, dolt, interferer, swelled-head, intruder, 
obnoxious ass, peacock, nincompoop and so on. 
He had not placed himself under their protection. 
For all they knew, he might very well be some 
laborer’s son profaning their noble ranks. In the 
heat of the moment they showed neither mercy 
nor restraint. Turning on him viciously, they sought 
to drive him away, to banish him forever and a 
day. 

Forced to protect himself, Setanta tasted for 
the first time of his own battle-fury. His blood 
seemed to turn into a molten river. He felt his 
strength suddenly treble. A terrible desire for 
vengeance filled him. Skillfully, avoiding the blows 
of the Boy-Corps, he laid about him in masterly 
fashion. It is an acknowledged fact that there 
were four fifties of the Boy-Corps on the lawn 



38 


The Hound of Culain 


that day. It is equally true that in his wrath Se- 
tanta laid low three fifties of them. The other fifty, 
he chased clear the length of the lawn and dear 
only knows what the outcome would have been 
had not Fergus macRogh come hurrying to the 
scene. At a glance he sized up the almost un¬ 
believable situation. 

“Hold on now,” he shouted to Setanta. “For a 
little fellow you are playing a very rough game.” 

“And why wouldn’t I?” boiled Setanta. “I 
came here a guest and was not given a guest’s 
reception.” 

“He broke in on our game, so he did,” interposed 
the captain of the Boy-Corps, a red-headed youth 
of stalwart parts. 

“Don’t you know you must submit yourself to the 
Boy-Corps before you may join in their games?” 
quizzed Fergus macRogh. 

“No, I did not know that,” Setanta answered 
truthfully enough. 

“Now you do.” And turning to the Boy-Corps, 
Fergus bade them to take Setanta under their pro¬ 
tection and proceed with the game. 

So soon as Fergus was gone, however, Setanta 
flatly refused to submit to the Boy-Corps. He was 
willing to let bygones be bygones, he said, but sub¬ 
mit to them; never! He was the king’s nephew. It 
would be unseemly for him to submit himself to 
anybody. 

“The king’s nephew!” scoffed the Boy-Corps. 



Setanta and the Boy-Corps 39 


“You come here without attendants, without a 
chariot, walking like a laborer’s son and expect us 
to believe you the king’s nephew? Pah! ” 

“Nevertheless,” Setanta insisted, “I am the 
king’s nephew and the plain of Muirthemne is my 
inheritance.” 

The jeering broke out anew. So did the com¬ 
bat. Setanta tore into his detractors. Scattered by 
the suddenness of the onslaught, the Boy-Corps 
retreated towards the palace. It was inevitable that 
Fergus should come running again. This time, he 
seized hold of Setanta. 

“What are you up to now?” he cried, shaking 
him. 

“By my father’s father,” vowed Setanta, “I 
swear I will not rest till the Boy-Corps submits 
and comes under my protection.” 

“And who are you to make such a preposterous 
demand?” 

“I am Setanta; Setanta, nephew to Conchubar, 
King of Ulster.” 

“Setanta! By all the gods this is remarkable! 
I should have recognized you the first time by 
your dimples.” So saying, Fergus lifted him up 
in his arms and kissed him. 

The Boy-Corps looked on astonished. This 
really was the king’s nephew then? Lord, they 
had best submit to him or he would be the death 
of them entirely. Their red-headed captain stepped 
forward with outstretched hand. “We are sorry 



40 


The Hound of Culain 


for treating you as we did,” he apologized, “and 
we will submit to you where we would to no one 
else living.” 

Sufficiently appeased, Setanta shook him by the 
hand. 

Then as evening was drawing nigh, the Boy- 
Corps decided to disband, but not without arrang¬ 
ing to meet again on the morrow at which time 
they invited Setanta to join them. 

“And won’t you come in now to see your uncle?” 
This from Fergus when none but he and Setanta 
remained on the lawn. 

“I will; indeed I will.” 

Forthwith, they fell into step side by side and 
went towards the palace. 

Here it is necessary that we interrupt our narra¬ 
tive in order to give our reader some idea of Emain 
Macha. It may be that we shall be able to de¬ 
scribe it as it appeared to Setanta on that first 
eventful evening. 

Emain Macha was something more than a mere 
palace. It has been called a city and there does 
not seem to be any reason to doubt that it was one. 
In the beginning it was the hill where Macha of the 
Golden-Hair gave birth to twins; hence its name, 
Emain Macha, “The Twins of Macha.” After¬ 
wards it was chosen as the sight of the royal pal¬ 
ace and was built, we are given to understand, by 
our eminent Irish writer, Standish O’Grady, “un- 



Setanta and the Boy-Corps 


41 


der the brazen shoutings of Macha and the roar 
of her sounding thongs.” 

The Royal House, or palace proper, at Emain 
Macha covered an area of three square miles and 
was divided into nine compartments. The walls 
were of red yew riveted with copper, the floors of 
oak that once towered high and mighty in the for¬ 
est and a tiled roof was over all. The great ban¬ 
queting hall which we have already visited on the 
occasion of Dechtire’s wedding feast, occupied the 
center of the house. Its massive, bronze doors 
were never closed, but ever open to King Conchu- 
bar’s friends. Two Irish miles from end to end 
was the measure of the banqueting hall. ’Twas 
heavily raftered and hung with shining ornaments 
of a truly astonishing variety. At the south end was 
a raised dias whereon stood King Conchubar’s 
throne neath a canopy of beaten bronze. In the 
well of the hall were the tables, chairs, couches, 
benches and footstools used by the guests. Inlaid 
some of them with gold and silver, while others 
were set with precious stones, they certainly were 
magnificent pieces. To the right of the banquet¬ 
ing hall was King Conchubar’s private compart¬ 
ment. His walls were of bronze and his ceiling 
a sheet of sheening silver that reflected all that 
happened below, but reversed it, so that one saw 
oneself seemingly standing on one’s head in a giant 
bowl of silver ether. Ornamented bronze pillars 
supported the ceiling, and hanging down from the 



42 


The Hound of Culain 


roof-tree of the house was a huge silver gong that 
King Conchubar would be striking to silence his 
warriors when, thirsty for war, their uproar be¬ 
came deafening. There too, each on a dais stood 
the twelve chairs of the chariot chiefs of Ulster. 
And scattered round and about were fine pelts, 
ivory chess tables, spear racks, shield pegs and ex¬ 
quisitely carved holders for the rush lights. 

But let us take a cursory glance now at the two 
houses adjoining the Royal House. Not as ele¬ 
gantly appointed as the Royal House either of 
them, yet doubtless they appealed much more to 
Setanta. First let us look at the larger of the two: 
the House of the Red Branch. Here, as in the 
Royal House, we find an enormous banqueting hall; 
the feasting ground of the warriors of Ulster, for 
this is their home. Not one dias here but two. On 
one sits King Conchubar, on the other Fergus 
MacRogh; his right to the championship of the 
warriors undisputed. In several of the adjoining 
rooms are stored—and what a fine collection they 
make!—the heads and weapons of the vanquished. 
All along the walls the weapons range while gory, 
gouged and awful to behold, the heads hang tied 
by matted hair from the huge, knotless rafters. 
It was an awe-inspiring sight! 

And the other house? The other house is the 
Speckled House and here we shall pause but long 
enough to say that it is here that the warriors of 
Ulster store their own weapons when not in use— 




Setanta and the Boy-Corps 43 


rare occasion!—and it is because they make such 
a dazzling array, being of so many different hues 
and shining metals, resembling somewhat a trout 
fresh out of water when all together, that the house 
has earned the name, “Speckled.” 

These three, the Royal House, the House of the 
Red Branch and the Speckled House, were the 
three most important houses in Emain Macha. All 
others existed to serve these three and serving 
existed. 

Entering the Royal House, Setanta and Fergus 
macRogh crossed the great hall to King Conchu- 
bar’s compartment. 

A slave boy gave them admittance. 

Outwardly calm but inwardly a veritable tor¬ 
nado of excitement, Setanta beheld King Conchu- 
bar seated on his throne, discoursing with a group 
of learned men. A feeling of pride swelled up in 
him. This was his uncle, this great, this greatest 
of all kings. 

King Conchubar looked up as they approached. 
The movement was registered in the silver ceiling 
overhead. “Who have you there?” he asked in a 
hearty voice. 

“ ’Tis a young lad I found outside routing the 
Boy-Corps,” Fergus replied, wishing to let Setanta 
have the joy of revealing his own identity. 

King Conchubar shot him a glance of interest 
mingled with surprise. It was not everybody that 




44 


The Hound of Culain 


could put the Boy-Corps to shame. “What is your 
name, lad?” he inquired. 

“Setanta, O King.” And as he said so he ran 
forward and embraced him. 

“How in the world did you get here?” laughed 
King Conchubar, hugging him tight. 

“I ran away from home,” Setanta confessed. 

“And why did you do that?” 

“It is the way I wanted to join the Boy-Corps.” 

“They have already accepted him,” put in Fer¬ 
gus MacRogh. 

“They have, have they? That was quick work.” 
King Conchubar thoughtfully stroked his beard. 
He was very much impressed with Setanta’s hon¬ 
esty and manly bearing. Perhaps it would be as well 
to let him stay on at Emain Macha. He was of an 
age now when he needed the companionship of 
other young lads. Besides there was his education 
to consider. “Well,” he said at last, “now that you’re 
here you may as well stay.” 

Wild with joy, Setanta embraced him afresh. 

There was great merriment on all in the room 
after this. Everybody felt a grah for Setanta. 
Moreover, the learned men promised to teach him 
of their wisdom and Fergus macRogh swore to 
make him a warrior without peer or die in the at¬ 
tempt. 

So unhappily begun, so happily ended Setanta’s 
first day at Emain Macha. 




CHAPTER FOUR 
The Hound of Culain 


One day soon after Setanta’s arrival at Emain 
Macha, King Conchubar was invited to a feast at 
the house of Culain the smith. Inasmuch as Culain 
made the weapons for the warriors of Ulster it 
would have been tactless of King Conchubar to 
refuse the invitation. 

On his way to the feast then, King Conchubar 
chanced by the lawn where the Boy-Corps was at 
play. He noticed that an odd and very unevenly 
sided game was being played, viz. three fifties of 
the Boy-Corps were sided against Setanta, trying 
to get the ball past him into the goal and failing 
miserably. Becoming aware of the king’s interest, 
they sought at once to redeem themselves in his 
eyes by changing sides. Setanta, they persuaded 
to go out onto the field while they guarded the 
goal, that is they tried to guard it, for in one five 
minutes, Setanta drove the ball between the posts 
every time he hit it. In sheer desperation then, 
the Boy-Corps suggested a game of mantle shed¬ 
ding. 

Mantle shedding was a game in which the op¬ 
posing sides sought to deprive one another of their 

45 





46 


The Hound of Culain 


mantles; the side wearing the greater number at 
the end being declared the winner. 

As before, the sides were the Boy-Corps versus 
Setanta. 

At first all was confusion. There were so many 
of the Boy-Corps and they were so excited that 
they mistook one another for Setanta. The result¬ 
ant scrimmage made King Conchubar laugh till 
his sides ached. But meanwhile Setanta was dart¬ 
ing hither and thither, picking the mantles from 
the shoulders of the Boy-Corps as if he was pick¬ 
ing blackberries from a ditch in a sunny glen. By 
the time the Boy-Corps disentangled themselves, 
it was to find that the only one on the lawn wear¬ 
ing a mantle was Setanta. 

Turning to Fergus macRogh who was with him, 
King Conchubar remarked, “If Setanta’s deeds as 
a man equal his deeds as a boy, his name will in¬ 
deed be spoken in hushed whispers wherever war¬ 
riors foregather.” 

And Fergus replied, and somewhat seriously, 
“Fear not, O King; his deeds will grow with him.” 

“Call him to us now,” said King Conchubar, 
“and we will take him to the feast.” 

When Setanta came running, his uncle said, 
“How would you like to go with us to Culain the 
smith’s?” 

“Och,” mourned Setanta, “I’d love to, but sure 
I have promised to see out the afternoon with the 
Boy-Corps. I can’t go back on my promise.” 



The Hound of Culain 


47 


“No, you can’t do that,” King Conchubar agreed, 
feeling disappointed nevertheless for he was gen¬ 
uinely fond of Setanta’s company. He brought 
back to him his own childhood and in some myste¬ 
rious way renewed his youth. 

Suddenly, Setanta was blessed with an idea. “I 
can follow after you, can’t I?” he suggested. 

“But you have no knowledge of the way,” in¬ 
terjected Fergus macRogh. 

“True for you,” Setanta readily admitted. “But 
what is to prevent my following in your chariot 
tracks?” 

“Not a thing in the world. It is clever of you to 
have thought of it,” lauded King Conchubar. 

And so it was arranged. King Conchubar, Fer¬ 
gus macRogh and others of the royal suite went 
their way and in due course arrived at the house 
of Culain the smith. A kindly welcome was put 
before them. Fresh rushes were laid and the feast 
got under way. 

Along about sundown, Culain asked King Con¬ 
chubar if he were expecting any late comers from 
Emain Macha. 

“No, Culain, my gold-hearted host, I am not. 
But why do you ask?” replied he, forgetting all 
about Setanta. 

“It is that I have a watchdog that when the chain 
is taken from him at night that he may guard the 
place, is savage and possessed of the strength of 
a hundred.” 



48 


The Hound of Culain 


“Loose him/’ cried King Conchubar. “Loose 
him, and may he tear the throat of any prowler 
venturing near the place this night.” 

And that is what Culain the smith went and did. 

Back at Emain Macha, the Boy-Corps was call¬ 
ing it a day. Setanta remained on the lawn until 
all had gone. Then he went indoors, washed, dis¬ 
entangled his golden hair and throwing a red and 
white silken cloak about his shoulders started out 
for the feast. The chariot tracks were clear and 
well defined. He had no bother at all following 
them. As usual, he shortened the way for himself 
by belting his silver ball out before him and throw¬ 
ing his stick after the ball and his spear after the 
stick and his dart after the spear and running fleet 
as a deer and catching the lot before they fell; no 
mean feat when you come to dwell on it. 

Fast as he went though, it was after dark when 
he neared his destination. Walking up the long 
hedged-in lane from the road, he could see the 
lights of the house blazing merrily in the distance 
and his thoughts were all of the good things he 
was going to have to eat, for he was very hungry 
after the long journey. But then he heard a deep 
and ominous growl from out the darkness up ahead. 
He stopped dead in his tracks. No doubt at all 
about it, there was a dog loose, a ferocious sound¬ 
ing dog. He tightened his grip on his hurling stick 
and stood intently listening. The growl was not 



The Hound of Culain 


49 


repeated. Perhaps the dog had been called in. 
Or maybe it had gone off in another direction. 
Anyway, he could not stand forever in the lane. 
Gathering up his courage, he proceeded cautiously. 

Meanwhile in the house, King Conchubar sat 
pale and silent. He seemed to be straining his ears 
towards out of doors. 

Culain was first to notice his preoccupation. 
“What is it, O King? 5 ’ he asked. 

“Was that the hound I heard growl a minute 
back?” King Conchubar’s face was tense as he 
put the question. The veriest fool could have seen 
that he wanted no for an answer. 

Alas! “ ’Twas,” affirmed Culain. “We’ll find 
the bones of some thief or other outside in the 
morning.” 

With a dismal wail King Conchubar leaped to 
his feet. “Ullagone, ullagone!” he wailed. “ ’Twas 
bad luck brought us to this house.” 

Culain started up, insulted. “What do you 
mean?” he demanded, and his voice was sum¬ 
mer thunder. 

“Och, it slipped my mind entirely that my sis¬ 
ter Dechtire’s son, my nephew, Setanta, was to fol¬ 
low after us.” And King Conchubar clenched his 
fists and his knuckles showed white. 

Like a cloak Culain’s anger dropped from him. 
“There may yet be time!” he cried. “Come, let 
us go!” 

Fast followed by King Conchubar and the war- 



so 


The Hound of Culain 


riors of Ulster he ran out into the night, calling 
. . . calling . . . calling in vain to the hound. 

As Setanta rounded the last bend in the bohereen 
he was chanting the lay of Amergin taught him by 
Sencha son of Ailill, the learned man. 

1 am a wind on the sea, 

I am a wave of the ocean, 

I am the roar of the sea, 

I am a powerful ox, 

I am a hawk on a cliff, 

1 am a dewdrop in sunshine, 

1 am a boar for valor. . . . 

He got no further. He heard the growl again. 
He had almost forgotten it. This time it sounded 
closer, ever so much closer. And it was drawing 
closer all the time. In those horrible moments his 
heart missed a beat. Then he remembered the 
lay he’d been chanting. How was it that line went? 
“I am a boar for valor,” was it? Well, he would 
be a boar for valor! Drawing himself up to his 
full height, he stood waiting, ready to give battle. 
Suddenly two monstrous eyes and a jowled, gap¬ 
ing mouth grew up before him out of the darkness. 
For a moment his new found courage deserted him 
and he dropped back a pace. Horribly sure of itself, 
Culain’s hound opened its drooling mouth wider 
yet and crouched low before leaping. Then Se¬ 
tanta heard voices coming from the house. Help 



























The Hound of Culain 


53 


was on the way. He almost sighed his relief. But 
the hound heard the voices too and, sensing that 
it was about to be deprived of its prey, flipped 
its tail savagely and sprang. As it came at him 
through the air, Setanta with heaven sent pres¬ 
ence of mind, drew back his arm and with all his 
might flung his silver ball down its slimy, cavern¬ 
ous throat. Taken completely by surprise and 
almost choking, the hound seemed to hang sus¬ 
pended in midair for the fraction of a second. 
That was long enough for Setanta. Throwing him¬ 
self forward, he caught it by its hind legs and 
swinging it around in a circle, dashed it to the 
ground where it lay without moving; its head split 
wide open. 

“Brave lad!” 

“The young hero!” 

“His mother’s son every inch of him!” 

“Couldn’t have done better myself!” 

“He has the dog in little bits!” 

“Do you mind him now as if ’twas nothing!” 

“By the gods, he has the makings of a great 
man; the little lad! ” , 

These were but a few of the praises showered on 
Setanta by King Conchubar and the men of Ul¬ 
ster. Then, catching him up in his arms, King 
Conchubar carried him into the house. 

One man and one only lingered by the side of 
the dead hound: Culain. It had meant a great deal 



54 


The Hound of Culain 


to him that hound had. For years it faithfully 
protected his property for nothing but its keep. 
Now he would have to hire a band of watchmen. 
That would be an expensive proposition; more 
than he could afford. Silently, unreasonably, he 
condemned Setanta. He would order him from his 
house, he vowed. He would be lucky if he did not 
kill him. 

When Culain came back indoors, it was obvious 
to all that he was in a temper. Pointing to Setanta, 
“There is no welcome for him here,” he growled 
menacingly. 

“What have you against him?” demanded King 
Conchubar. N 

“It is that he killed my fine hound that I was 
grown fond of and that guarded me against rob¬ 
bers.” 

“ ’Twas either kill or be killed. Would you have 
had your hound alive at the expense of your king’s 
own flesh and blood?” 

“If you were not guests in my house, he would 
not leave it alive.” 

King Conchubar’s hand flew to his sword. As 
one man, the men of Ulster followed his lead. In 
the heat of that moment anything might have hap¬ 
pened. Fortunately, Setanta took it upon himself 
to intervene. Fearlessly, he crossed the hall to 
Culain. 

“I will make good the wrong I have done you, 
Culain the smith,” he said winningly. “For I have 



The Hound of Culain 


55 


always admired you and the weapons you make 
are the best in all Ireland.” 

“How will you make good the wrong?” de¬ 
manded Culain. 

“It is what I will do, I will find and train you 
another hound of the same breed and till I do, 
it is I myself that will guard your place for you.” 

“You are willing to do that, are you?” For the 
second time that evening Culain’s anger fell from 
him. Who could be angry in the face of such an 
offer? 

“I am willing.” And Setanta gave his hand as 
his bond. 

Culain took it and the tension in the hall eased 
at once. 

Then out spake King Conchubar’s father, Cath- 
bad the Druid, “Because of what you have done 
this day, Setanta, you will henceforth be called 
Cuchulain.” 

Setanta did not relish the idea at first. 

“Do not gainsay me, lad,” chided Cathbad the 
Druid. “All men will know you by that name.” 

This put a different complexion on the matter. 
Setanta gave way without another murmur. 

Nor shall we protest. We too accept Cuchu¬ 
lain, which means, of course, the Hound of Culain, 
and shall use it throughout the remainder of our 
story. 




CHAPTER FIVE 
Cuchulain Takes Up Arms 


When he had kept his promise to Culain the 
smith, Cuchulain returned to Emain Macha. There 
he began going to school. 

Was he a good scholar? 

What was his favorite subject? 

Was he ever kept in after hours? 

Was he on time mornings? 

Did he ever stand in the corner, wearing the 
dunce’s cap? 

Poof! A truce with nonsense! It was not that 
kind of school. Never let it be said that in the 
Royal School at Emain Macha the pupils were 
herded like sheep into little pens and stuffed with 

56 

































Cuchulain Takes Up Arms 


57 


knowledge of no earthly use. Each pupil was 
taught only that which he could understand and 
all at first learned how to play. (God be with the 
days!) Yes, they learned to ride, swim, run, play 
games, build fires, make tents, climb trees, fish 
and so on. Then they were taught to hurl a spear, 
to handle horses, to drive a chariot, and they learned 
the art of self defense and to know not fear but to 
revere courage both in themselves and others. And 
they learned how to comport themselves in com¬ 
pany. And the bards and the poets and the learned 
men taught them of their knowledge; each one 
according to his capabilities. And the druids taught 
them the mysteries of their religion and the judges 
their laws. And King Conchubar ruled over the 
school even as he ruled over Ulster and every¬ 
thing that took place there was known to him. 

From the outset, it was evident that Cuchulain 
was an exceptional pupil. He excelled in every¬ 
thing. Nothing was too difficult for him. But 
above all else he shone as a warrior. He loved the 
excitement of the mimic battles staged to test the 
fitness of the Boy-Corps. None could handle a 
chariot more skillfully than he—he could turn one 
in a wheel’s breath. And he handled a sword ex¬ 
pertly and his spears and his darts and his javelins 
invariably found their mark. 

Came at length the day when he was to take up 
arms and be received on an equal footing with the 
warriors of Ulster. He was not really old enough 



58 


The Hound of Culain 


to take this step. He was only fourteen or there¬ 
abouts. But a prophecy uttered by Cathbad the 
druid egged him on, more or less decided him. 

What was this prophecy? 

Asked one morning what the day augured, Cath¬ 
bad after a moment or two of reverie divined, “The 
youth that takes up arms this day, his name will 
be honored for all time, but his years will be 
short.” 

So soon as Cuchulain heard this—it spread like 
wildfire among the Boy-Corps—he laid down his 
hurling stick and went indoors to King Conchubar. 

“Greetings, O King!” said he. “I have a re¬ 
quest to make of you.” 

“What is it, lad?” 

“It is that I wish to take up arms this day.” 

“Take up arms, is it?” Slowly, with forefinger 
and thumb, King Conchubar stroked his beard. 
“Aren’t you a bit young yet? Who gave you the 
idea?” 

“Cathbad the druid.” 

This, of course, was not the exact truth. But in 
his enthusiasm, Cuchulain himself had come to be¬ 
lieve that it was. 

Accustomed to acting on Cathbad’s suggestions, 
King Conchubar relented. “If Cathbad is for it, 
it must be all right,” he granted. Then, rising from 
his throne, he descended into the well of the room 
and opened the great chest where was kept a sup¬ 
ply of weapons against the time members of the 





Cuchulain Takes Up Arms 59 

Boy-Corps grew to manhood. Selecting two spears 
and a sword, he presented them to Cuchulain. 

There was something sacred about that moment. 
King Conchubar and Cuchulain both felt it. It 
seemed as if by accepting the weapons, Cuchulain 
had bidden his childhood farewell. A new feeling 
sprang up between him and his uncle; an almost 
brotherly feeling, totally different to the parental 
feeling which had existed heretofore. Both knew 
that henceforth they would greet one another not 
with a kiss but with a handshake. 

But then the moment passed as such solemn 
moments will and Cuchulain took himself out of 
doors to test his weapons, to see were they worthy 
of him. It would please us to report that he found 
them satisfactory. Such, alas, was not the case. 
First he tested the spears. They cracked and clat¬ 
tered to the ground. His heart fell and his temper 
rose. Such weapons were an insult to his dignity. 
However, the sword had yet to be tried. Control¬ 
ling himself, he suppled the blade. Quivering and 
gleaming gold in the sunlight, the thin ribbon of 
steel yielded and curved. But suddenly without 
any warning there was a sharp report like the 
crack of a chariot whip. It had snapped. Wrath- 
fully, he flung the broken pieces from him and 
stormed indoors to his uncle. 

In order to appease him, King Conchubar pre¬ 
sented him with another, a heavier and stronger set. 
But these too failed. And so too the next set. And 



60 


The Hound of Culain 


the next. And the next. And the . . . But why go 
on? The truth of the matter is that at the end of 
an hour he had reduced the entire contents of the 
Boy-Corps’s weapon-chest to smithereens. By that 
time, he was in a veritable paroxysm of rage; in¬ 
deed, King Conchubar began to entertain grave 
fears that he would burst a blood vessel. What to 
do to calm him? he puzzled. There was only one 
thing to do: give Cuchulain his own weapons. But 
even his weapons had to undergo the test. Fortu¬ 
nately they stood up and at last Cuchulain was 
satisfied. 

“A blessing on the land that for king has him 
whose weapons are these!” he cried, delighted with 
himself. 

But in the midst of his rejoicing, Cathbad the 
druid entered. 

“So?” said he. “Is the little lad taking up arms?” 

“ Twould seem so,” King Conchubar replied, 
ruefully eyeing the pile of shattered weapons. 

Cathbad heaved a sigh. “It would be better for 
him had he chosen some other day,” he said. 

“How so?” demanded King Conchubar. “Was it 
not you yourself that suggested it?” 

“Me? Not me, surely.” 

Cuchulain fidgeted and lowered his eyes. 

“Whelp!” yelled King Conchubar. “Why did 
you lie to me?” 

“O King, stay thy wrath,” pleaded Cuchulain. 
“Although Cathbad may not know it he did indeed 



Cuchulain Takes Up Arms 


61 


fill me with the idea. He divined this morning 
that the youth that would take up arms this day, 
his name would be honored for all time, but his 
years be short.” 

“I did. I said that,” Cathbad admitted. “Famed 
far and wide will you be, Cuchulain, but fast fad¬ 
ing.” 

“I care not for that,” Cuchulain laughed lightly. 
“I care not how brief my days so long as my deeds 
live on after me.” 

“Let you mount a chariot then,” Cathbad in¬ 
structed. “You have no time to waste in idleness.” 

When the chariot drew up, Cuchulain leaped in 
and proceeded to test it. In order to avoid repeti¬ 
tion, we shall ask our reader to recall what hap¬ 
pened with the weapons. The same thing hap¬ 
pened with the chariots. Seventeen chariots in all 
he wrecked. Finally, King Conchubar had to call 
out his own charioteer, Iubar macRiangabra. 
“Iubar,” said he, “go yoke my chariot and bring 
it here.” 

Iubar soon returned. Yes, even as the king’s 
weapons, the king’s chariot had to be tested. Cuchu¬ 
lain tested it first for speed, then for rough usage 
in battle, then for fording rivers and finally for 
climbing mountains. That it hung together is a 
minor miracle. But it did; not so much as a rivet 
was loosened on it. 

“This chariot is worthy of me,” Cuchulain pro¬ 
nounced. 



62 


The Hound of Culain 


“Let the horses be stabled now, will you?” 
pleaded Iubar. 

But Cuchulain had other ideas. He wanted to 
drive out to the Boy-Corps and have them wish him 
luck on his taking arms. 

Reluctantly Iubar gave way. 

Away they went then and after careening madly 
twice around the lawn, they pulled up short. 

The Boy-Corps crowded around. 

“I have come for your good wishes on my taking 
arms,” Cuchulain cried. 

“You have them and more,” voiced the Boy- 
Corps to a man. “But we are sad at heart to lose 
so grand a playmate as yourself.” 

“It had to be.” 

“May the gods smile on you then. May you 
have luck in your first slaying. May you enrich 
yourself with the spoils of war.” 

“Will you let the horses be stabled now?” inter¬ 
rupted Iubar, who, truth to tell, was anxious to get 
back to a game of chess he was engaging in with a 
friend. 

“Tell me first,” begged Cuchulain, “where does 
that white road running by us lead?” 

“Och, what questions you ask! It leads to the 
Ford of the Look-Out in Slieve Fuad.” 

“Why is that name on it?” 

“Because every day some great warrior of Ul¬ 
ster is on the lookout there to see that no enemies 



Cuchulain Takes Up Arms 


63 


sneak over the border and to accept the challenges 
of warriors of other provinces.” 

“Who is the lookout for today?” 

“If I tell you, will you let me put up the horses?” 

“Arrah, tell me who it is, man, and don’t be 
laying conditions on me.” 

“Ah, I’m thinking it will go hard with him that 
tries to saddle you with conditions. Connal the 
Victorious is the lookout for today; a mighty war¬ 
rior if ever there was one.” 

“Wouldn’t it be the great thing for us to be 
driving over to see him this fine day?” 

“The horses are too tired.” 

“I’ll take the reins myself.” 

“You will not. Your uncle would be the death 
of me.” 

“Take me then.” 

“I’ll take you there, but we must come straight 
back.” 

“Drive on, let you.” 




CHAPTER SIX 

Cuchulain Accepts a Challenge 


It was a two hour drive; enjoyable every inch 
of the way; a circumstance we must attribute to 
the season for it was midsummer. The sky was 
blue. The sun shone warmly. The air was redo¬ 
lent of wild woodbine and new mown hay. Haws 
along the way were ripe; red ripe and bursting 
into yellow. Once in a while a rabbit ran across 
the road in front of the chariot, making Cuchulain 
roar with laughter. Their little white tails looked 
so pert, so saucy. They were gone in a flash, of 
course. Yet he felt that he would never forget 
them. Is it not strange how we all remember little 
things like that and we forgetting more important 
things all the time? Is it because they so inno¬ 
cently amuse, do you suppose? 

But now they were come to a large lake and 
Cuchulain found himself longing to go in for a swim. 
Iubar was driving so fast, however, and the horses 
were gaited so perfectly that he forebore, little 
dreaming that he was to have his swim later in 
the day; and what a swim, a swim for his life! 
Presently they came across another, a smaller lake. 

64 




Cuchulain Accepts a Challenge 65 


Joined to the first by a thin thread of a stream, a 
river flowed out of this lake and where it did, they 
beheld the Ford of the Look-Out: their destina¬ 
tion. 

Iubar slithered the horses to an abrupt halt. 
Cuchulain leaped down from the chariot. 

Sure enough, there stood Connal the Victorious 
and he on guard. He was a handsome looking man 
and his armored tunic and close-fitting bronze cap 
added rather than detracted from his looks. 

“Greetings!” he cried. Cuchulain moved toward 
him impulsively. 

Connal did not reply for a moment, but exam¬ 
ined him closely from head to toe. Then he be¬ 
gan to laugh and said, “Ho, hoho! Is it arms you 
are after taking, little lad?” 

“It is.” Cuchulain was visibly discomfited, as 
who would not be? 

“I am of the opinion that you have taken them 
up before your time,” chuckled Connal. 

“Is that so?” Cuchulain let the slur pass and 
changing the conversation asked, “And what are 
you killing the time of day here for?” 

It was Connal’s turn to flush. “It is not killing 
the time of day but guarding the province, I am. 
Were it not for me all Ulster would wake up dead 
in the morning.” 

“Would you consider letting me take your place 
for this one day?” Cuchulain asked. 

“Let you take my place, is it? Yerra, you would 



66 The Hound of Culain 

be as chaff before the wind if a foe but cast his 
shadow in this direction.” 

Cuchulain fairly purpled. “If that is what you 
think,” he blurted out, “I must be off to the shad¬ 
ows of Lough Echtera in search of a challenge. 
’Twould be unseemly for me to return to Emain 
Macha without blooding my weapons.” 

“Hold on and I’ll go with you,” hastily proffered 
Connal. The shadows of Lough Echtera was en¬ 
emy and therefore highly dangerous territory. He 
did not like to think of Cuchulain venturing there 
alone. 

But Cuchulain rejected his offer. “I do not need 
a nurse,” he said, mounting again the chariot. 

“I’ll go all the same,” Connal insisted. 

“You’ll have to catch me first.” And bending 
down, Cuchulain picked up a goad and prodded the 
horses off to a flying start. 

In a thrice Connal yoked his chariot and set out 
after him. 

Whether Iubar drove Cuchulain as fast as he 
might have done on this occasion is open to grave 
doubt. This though is certain, Connal rapidly made 
up for lost ground and in another five minutes 
would have caught up with them had not Cuchu¬ 
lain decided to be rid of him. 

“Pull up!” he bade Iubar. 

Iubar gladly obeyed, thinking it was to wait for 
Connal. 

Instead, Cuchulain vaulted to the ground and 




Cuchulain Accepts a Challenge 67 


picked up a stone the size of his fist. Taking care¬ 
ful aim, he flung it at the yoke of Connal’s fast 
approaching chariot. The yoke snapped and down 
came the chariot with a crash, hurtling Connal to 
the ground with such force that his chin was 
twisted back of his left shoulder. 

“What is the meaning of this?” wailed he, right¬ 
ing himself as best he could. 

“I wanted to show you that I am not too young 
to take up arms,” Cuchulain called back, “and I 
wanted to let you see that I am well able to take 
care of myself.” 

“A murrain on yourself and your arms!” Connal 
retaliated. “You can go now to your death. I’ll not 
raise a finger to save you; no, not if you were to be 
killed twice over.” 

“Good,” said Cuchulain. 

The next minute he had Iubar driving hell for 
leather for Lough Echtera. 

Alas, when they got there not hide sight nor 
hair of a foe was to be seen. Cuchulain walked 
clear around the lake three times. He was about 
to go ’round again, but Iubar stopped him. Said 
he, “Let us return now. Already the noonday 
meal is in preparation and there is great hunger 
entirely gnawing at me. It is all right for you to 
dawdle. King Conchubar will save your place. But 
I must take pot luck and if I am not in on time no 
one will think to save me anything.” 

Reluctantly, Cuchulain gave way. He did not 



68 


The Hound of Culain 


despair of engaging in mortal combat, however, 
before he was come again to Emain Macha. 

They went back a different way. Iubar knew 
the country so well, he had all the short cuts off 
by heart. They would be home in less than an 
hour, he assured Cuchulain. But then Cuchulain 
saw Finncairn. 

Finncairn? 

Finncairn was a white cairn atop a mountain to 
the left of the road. 

But what is a cairn? 

It is a mound of stones raised high over a grave; 
in this instance over that of Finn. Everybody who 
visited there or passed by during the course of the 
day threw a stone on it—it was held bad luck not 
to—and as the years rolled by it grew and grew 
until it could be seen for miles. 

“Let us drive up to it,” Cuchulain proposed. 

“Let us do no such a-thing,” Iubar retorted 
sharply. “It is too far out of the way and besides 
the great hunger on me, I am tired unto death.” 

“You are a lazy fellow, Iubar,” Cuchulain 
jeered. “Is it refusing me my requests on this my 
first day of taking arms you would be?” 

“It is.” 

Cuchulain tried coaxing. “Good Iubar,” he 
pleaded, “drive now as I tell you and let you be 
showing me the whole of Ulster from the cairnside 
that I may know my way about in future and not 
have to be plaguing the life out of you.” 



Cuchulain Accepts a Challenge 69 


Iubar repressed a groan. There was no resist¬ 
ing Cuchulain once he started coaxing. 

“Tell me now/’ said Cuchulain when they had 
made the steep climb, “what is the name on yonder 
meadowed plain?” 

“Mag Breagh,” Iubar told him. 

“Point out to me its duns and strongholds.” 

“Wirra, wirra! What next?” deplored Iubar, 
complying nevertheless and showing him the hill 
of Teamhair over Tara south of the Boyne, the 
seat of the High-Kings of Ireland. 

“And west of it?” plied Cuchulain. 

“West of it is the Tailteann plain where great 
games are held every year in honor of the mother 
of Lu, the Deliverer, who is worshipped there.” 

“And over there?” said Cuchulain, pointing. 

“Is Cleathra.” 

“And that brightly sheening dun yonder by the 
Boyneside?” 

“That? Oh, let you not mind that.” 

“Why so?” 

“ ’Tis an enchanted place. The demons of war 
hold sway there and terrible are their spells.” 

“Tell me whose dun it is, Iubar.” No request 
this, but a demand. 

Iuber relented. “It is the dun of the sons of 
Nechtan Sceine.” 

“The dun of the sons of Nechtan Sceine?” 
mused Cuchulain. “Is it not the sons of Nechtan 
Sceine that boast the number of Ulstermen alive 



70 


The Hound of Culain 


does not exceed the number they have killed?” 

“It is. And they are fierce and awful to behold 
and the demons of war are their slaves and their 
battle-fury unequalled throughout the length and 
breadth of the land.” 

“Say no more, but drive me there.” 

“Is it out of your mind you are?” 

“Drive me to them!” Threateningly Cuchu- 
lain fingered King Conchubar’s mighty spear 
which appropriately enough was called the Veno¬ 
mous. 

Venomous it must have seemed to Iubar. “I’ll 
go. I’ll go,” he stammered. Forthwith he lashed 
up the horses and the thunder of their going was an 
awesome thing to be listening to, so it was. ’Twas 
like rain on tin sheeting only worse, a thousand 
times worse. 

When at length they arrived at the dun of the 
sons of Nechtan Sceine, Cuchulain saw a stone set 
in the lawn. It was a pillar stone with an iron 
band about it and writing on it in Ogham charac¬ 
ters which he quickly deciphered. It read: 

NO MAN THAT COMES HERE CARRYING 
ARMS SHALL LEAVE WITHOUT 
CHALLENGING ONE OF US, 

THE SONS OF NECHTAN SCEINE 

Here, at last, was a challenge; one he would 
not, could not ignore. And to show his scorn for 
the sons of Nechtan Sceine, he threw his arms about 
the pillar, lifted it from its place and with a mighty 



Cuchulain Accepts a Challenge 71 


heave hurled it into the nearby lake where it sank 
with a splash and a gurgling sound. 

Well! 

Iubar, of course, was aghast and pale about the 
gills. In a breathless sort of way he said, “You 
have done nothing that is good. You have sealed 
your doom.” 

But Cuchulain did not think so. He felt his 
battle-fury rising in him and in order to conserve 
his energy until such time as the sons of Nechtan 
Sceine would come forth girth for combat, he or¬ 
dered Iubar lay out the chariot coverings and 
wrapping himself up well, he was soon sound asleep. 

Iubar looked at him once and a lump rose in 
his throat when he saw that he had his silver ball 
clutched in his hand. “Ah, the poor child,” he 
sighed. “He’s going to need a stronger weapon 
than that to overcome the sons of Nechtan Sceine.” 

Meanwhile the sons of Nechtan Sceine were hav¬ 
ing an argument. They had lost count of whose 
turn it was to go down to the pillar. 

“It is my turn!” cried Foill. 

“When did you go last?” argued Tuachall. 

“Let us draw lots! ” suggested Fainnle, the young¬ 
est of the three. 

The other two agreed. Whereupon Fainnle went 
out and plucked three straws of different lengths 
from the rick. “The short straw goes,” he said, 
setting the conditions. 

Tuachall drew first, then Foill; Fainnle opened 
his hand on the remaining straw. 



72 


The Hound of Culain 


“I have it! I have the short one!” Foill roared, 
his stubbled, fat-lipped mouth well nigh drooling 
with anticipation. 

His brothers measured to make sure. 

He had it all right. 

“Go let you then,” they counselled him, “and 
kill anyone waiting there and cut off his head and 
bring it in when you come for us to see.” 

“If he has red hair, his head is yours, Tuachall,” 
Foill laughed wickedly, “if black, it’s yours, Fainnle, 
but if it’s fair I’ll keep it myself.” And with that 
he went out. 

Iubar saw him coming and trembled at the sight. 
He was a walking mountain. No, he wasn’t either. 
He was a giant spider; ugly, cunning, repulsive, 
treacherous, evil. 

“Whose horses have you there, charioteer?” he 
bellowed. 

“They belong to Conchubar, King of Ulster,” 
Iubar chattered. 

“I thought I recognized them. Who brought 
them here? And . . . and who tore up our pil¬ 
lar?” 

Iubar trembled all over. He had never heard 
such an awful voice. “Oh, a little bit of a lad,” 
he answered at last, “a little bit of a lad that took 
up arms this day and is up to all sorts of mischief. 
But sure there isn’t a bit of harm in him. You know 
what young lads are.” 

“Where is he?” 



Cuchulain Accepts a Challenge 73 


“Over there in the chariot wrappings sleeping 
his head off.” 

Foill cast a malevolent eye in the direction in¬ 
dicated. “Hum,” he grunted. “Took up arms did 
he? If I thought he had it in him to put up any 
sort of a decent fight at all, I’d send him home 
headless.” 

“You would, would you?” 

To Iubar’s dismay, Cuchulain suddenly sat up. 
He had been shamming sleep ever since Foill’s 
arrival. 

“I challenge you!” he shouted, his battle-fury 
rising. 

“Accepted,” leered Foill. He was not in the habit 
of fighting children, but when nothing else offered 
he had to do something to keep in trim. 

“Where are your weapons?” demanded Cuchu¬ 
lain. 

Somewhat disconcerted Foill admitted to hav¬ 
ing come without them. 

“Go get them,” ordered Cuchulain. “I do not 
slay servants nor messengers nor unarmed men at 
any time.” 

Gritting his teeth, Foill hurried off. He would 
be back in a minute, he promised grimly. 





i 


CHAPTER SEVEN 


The Fate of the Sons of Nechtan Sceine 


While Foill was retrieving his weapons, Iubar 
advised Cuchulain in this wise: 

“This Foill you are up against is a dangerous 
customer. They do be saying he is enchanted, that 
he can’t be wounded by a pointed or edged weapon 
of any kind.” 

Serious news was this indeed! Was Foill a 
second Achilles? Had he too been dipped in the 
Styx? But even Achilles was vulnerable. Paris 
proved that when he slayed him with an arrow that 
pierced his heel. Foill must have a vulnerable 
point too, Cuchulain reasoned. There must be 
some weapon that would slay him. And it was 

74 

















































Fate of the Sons of Nechtan Sceine 75 


then that he bethought himself of his silver ball 
that Iubar had ridiculed beknownst to him while 
he slept. 

But here came Foill. He had his armor buckled 
on. In his left hand he carried a curved, body- 
length shield; in his right a sharp-edged sword 
shone evilly. 

“Are you ready?” cried he. 

“Ready,” Cuchulain bravely returned. 

With the battle cry of his clan on his lips, Foill 
charged. 

You could not see what happened for dust. You 
could but hear the clash of steel against steel. 

Iubar, watching anxiously, felt perspiration 
breaking out on his forehead and he clenched his 
fists and buried his nails deep in the palms of his 
hands. 

Ah! Cuchulain had weathered the first attack. 
Now they were circling ’round and around. Naught 
was visible of Foill except his coal black eyes fierce 
and flaming behind his shield. Each was sizing 
the other up, each looking for the fatal opening 
that spelled Death. 

Oh, to have been there! To have been able to 
cheer Cuchulain on! To hurrah his every move! 
He was only a boy; a boy fighting against desperate 
odds. 

Aw, crafty Foill! Each time he circled around, 
he drew closer to Cuchulain. Cuchulain never took 
his eyes off him. But was he aware of the gradual 



76 


The Hound of Culain 


lessening of ground between them? Why, Foill 
was almost within sword reach! Any moment, he 
might lunge and all would be over. 

Poor Iubar could watch no longer. Burying his 
head in the crook of his arm, he prayed his gods. 

All of a sudden, Cuchulain began to retreat. 
Foill pressed his advantage and pursued him. His 
blood literally boiling, Cuchulain began to run. 

Run away, is it? 

I should say not. He had to have room to throw 
his silver ball. So much depended on it. If he 
failed, it was all up with him. There! now the time 
was ripe. Turning in his tracks, he wound up his 
arm. Then, closing one eye, he took aim and flung. 

Hearing the nerve wracking, the awful, the hor¬ 
rible sound of splintering bone, Iubar was almost 
afraid to open his eyes. But the temptation proved 
too great. He had to know the outcome sooner or 
later anyway. Palsied with anxiety, he took a look. 
He looked again. Dear knows, he wanted to be¬ 
lieve what he saw, but it did not seem possible. 
Could that really be Foill lying there on the ground; 
a hole the size of a man’s fist tunnelled through his 
head? Or were his eyes deceiving him? Which? 
Whisth, there was Cuchulain cutting off the head 
and fixing it to his belt. Then . . . then . . . 
then it was true! It was Foill that was down! It 
was! It was! Unable to contain himself any longer, 
he broke out and danced a jig on the sward. 

Unfortunately, it is now our unpleasant duty 



Fate of the Sons of Nechtan Sceine 77 


to return to Foill’s brothers, Tuachall and Fainnle. 
Already they had begun to question his long ab¬ 
sence. It had never taken him this long to polish 
off a challenger before. Could anything have 
happened? But no, that was impossible. And 
yet . . . ? 

“I’ll go see what’s keeping him,” volunteered 
Tuachall. 

When he came to the lawn, he stood and looked 
down at the decapitated body of his brother for a 
moment or two. Slowly, the livid hues of anger 
raced tide-like up his neck and into his face, blotch¬ 
ing his cheeks and rendering him truly hideous to 
the eye. 

“You did this?” he said, turning on Cuchulain 
and his voice was menacing and deadly. 

“I did,” owned Cuchulain and he yet in the 
throes of his battle-fury. 

Tuachall spat on the ground. “I suppose you 
think you have done a great thing, something to 
boast about?” he taunted. 

“There is nothing to boast of in slaying one 
man,” said Cuchulain. 

“And even if there were, you would not live to 
boast of it. It is I myself that will be revenged on 
you,” threatened Tuachall. 

“Go get your weapons!” Cuchulain cried. “I do 
not slay servants nor messengers nor unarmed men 
at any time.” 

While he was gone, Iubar advised Cuchulain as 



78 


The Hound of Culain 


before. “If you are to make an end of Tuachall at 
all,” he prompted, “it must be by the first stroke 
of whatever weapon you use, for he is enchanted 
too and famed for his skill at dodging. You will 
not be able, no matter how hard you try, to touch 
him a second time.” 

“Leave him to me, Iubar,” raged Cuchulain. “It 
is King Conchubar’s mighty spear, the Venomous, 
I will use against him.” 

Then Tuachall came forth. He was clothed in 
armor from head to toe and the weapons he car¬ 
ried were javelins; javelins razor-sharp. 

Even if he were fortunate enough to escape the 
javelins, how was Cuchulain to pierce his armor? 
Verily, it was of a thickness unpierceable. 

This thought must also have occurred to Iubar, 
for he began to wail, “Ulla gulla, gulla g’one,” he 
wailed. “Ulla gulla, gulla g’one.” 

Ulla gulla, gulla g’one, indeed! Tuachall had be¬ 
gun to hurl the javelins. Winged messengers of de¬ 
struction, they rode the air faster than snipe; 
showers of them. You would say they could not 
fail to make Cuchulain their pincushion. And yet 
they did. How is a mystery? Cuchulain, to be sure, 
darted hither and thither, cutting a zig zag course 
here and there, leaping high, flattening himself 
against the ground, fleeing to the right and left and 
hurling himself through the air, relating himself to 
the hare by reason of his miraculous bounds. Then 
happened the inevitable. Tuachall ran out of jave- 



Fate of the Sons of Nechtan Sceine 79 

lins and Cuchulain changed his tactics. Clutching 
the Venomous, no longer dodging but advancing in 
a straight line, he bore down on Tuachall. Was 
there one weak link in that armor? If there was, 
the Venomous would find it out. Within hurling 
distance, he brandished the royal weapon aloft, then 
drawing back his arm with great deliberation and 
accuracy, he sped the spear on its way. 

“Hurray!” It was Iubar cheering. 

“Hurray!” This time it was Cuchulain. 

And now we are going to permit ourselves a 
cheer. “Hurray! Brave, brave Cuchulain!” 

The Venomous had found the one weak link in 
Tuachall’s armor. It pierced him over the breast, 
penetrated his heart and smashed three of his ribs. 
He fell without a cry: stone dead. 

A minute later two heads hung from Cuchulain’s 
belt where before there was but one. 

But one? 

Those words have a significant ring. 

Has it not occurred to you that there was but one 
left to take? Fainnle’s. 

It has to Cuchulain. Iubar tries to dissuade him, 
but he is wasting his time. Cuchulain’s battle-fury 
has now reached fever pitch. His face is crimson. 
His eyes gleam. Every pulse in his body throbs 
at an alarming rate. Actually, he is quivering with 
rage. “I will have all three heads or none!” he 
storms. “The sons of Nechtan Sceine are better off 
dead. They are evil men. They radiate malice as 



80 


The Hound of Culain 


the sun does heat. They are in league with demons 
and sorcerers . . 

“But,” Iubar interrupts, “Fainnle is more dan¬ 
gerous than the other two together.” 

“So much the better.” 

“Well, if you are determined,” and here Iubar 
shakes his head in great despair, “if you are deter¬ 
mined and I see you are, let me give you an advice. 
Fainnle is a swimmer. That is why he has been 
named for the swallow. He flits over water like the 
lightning of the gods. It may be that he will ask 
you to fight in the lake yonder, and you will have 
to be faster than a northeaster to get the best of 
him. Mark me well now, speed is the great thing 
with Fainnle; speed!” 

Cuchulain snorts indignantly and exclaims, “Is 
it to me you say the like of that, Iubar? Know 
you not that when the Boy-Corps goes in for a 
swim I take a lad on each shoulder and a lad on 
each hand and so fast do I cross the river Callan I 
do not even wet my ankles?” 

“Faith now, if you can do that same you stand a 
good chance against Fainnle,” Iubar is quick to 
admit. 

The words are but out of his mouth when Fainnle 
appears on the scene. Seeing his brothers stretched 
lifeless, headless and bleeding, he vows instant re¬ 
venge. Fixing Cuchulain with a baneful stare, “My 
brothers were as babes in arms compared to me 
and it is me you have to contend with now,” he 
says. 



Fate of the Sons of Nechtan Sceine 81 


“Go get your weapons/’ Cuchulain retorts. “I 
do not slay servants nor messengers nor unarmed 
men at any time.” 

Quickly Fainnle goes and quickly returns. 

“Come out with me now into the lake,” he sug¬ 
gests, “and we will fight it out.” 

Unsheathing his sword, Cuchulain wades out 
into the water. 

Did we not say earlier that he was to have his 
swim before the day was out; a swim for his life? 

Far out into the lake where the waters are fath¬ 
oms deep they go. Without a word of warning, 
Fainnle dives suddenly. Swallow? He should have 
been named for the otter. Down, down he goes, 
twisting and turning, intent on coming up behind 
Cuchulain. But now Cuchulain has dived. Iubar 
on the shore watches and prays. The water begins 
to churn and spray flies high in bubbling, white 
cascades. Are they fighting it out under the water? 
It seems so. But no, there they are now; the two 
of them, coming up for air. Dog-like Cuchulain 
treads the water, watching Fainnle closely, trying 
to anticipate his next move. When he is least 
expecting it, Fainnle hurls himself across the water 
at him. Swiftly, he turns on his back and kicks 
out desperately. Blinded by the splashing foam, 
Fainnle retreats. Again the two rest. Iubar shouts 
encouraging words to Cuchulain from the shore. 
They affect him as a goad. Throwing all caution 
to the winds, he quickly crosses the intervening 
space. But where is Fainnle? The rascal is slip- 



82 


The Hound of Culain 


perier than an eel. He must have plunged below 
again. Thrashing the water with his sword, Cuchu- 
lain guards against a surprise attack. Suddenly he 
feels a swirling in the water about his feet. Fainnle 
is coming at him from below. Plunging his sword 
deep down, Cuchulain spins himself around like a 
top. Fainnle spies the fastly revolving blade in 
his hand. He tries to draw back. But too late. 
His neck is smote a mortal blow. His breath 
escapes in bubbles. Water takes its place. Reach¬ 
ing down, Cuchulain grasps and completely severs 
his head. His body floats away and it spewing 
blood on the now calm waters. 

And now Cuchulain has waded ashore. The three 
heads dangle from his belt. Iubar runs up to em¬ 
brace him. But Cuchulain pushes him to one side. 
He has work to do yet. Crossing the green sward 
where lay the bodies of Foill and Tuachall, he makes 
for the dun. With his sword he smites the doors 
and they burst open. Crossing the great hall, the 
scene of many a debauch of the sons of Nechtan 
Sceine, he takes a burning ember from the fireplace. 
From room to room, he goes setting the place afire. 
We leave him in the act, for he will not rest content 
until every trace of his hideous foes has been 
erased. 




CHAPTER EIGHT 
The Hero Returns 


When Cuchulain quitted the scene of his great vic¬ 
tory and set out for Emain Macha, he was still 
laboring under the spell of his battle-fury. It had 
not abated a whit. He would have liked to battle 
all over again for his life. The way he felt he could 
have vanquished an army. Perhaps it is just as well 
he did not run into one or he might have. Passing 
Slieve Fuad, however, he caught sight of a herd of 
deer. They were not ordinary deer. He would 
not have bothered with them if they were. They 
were twice as big and haloed each one with an 
aura of white fire. What deer could they be? He 
asked Iubar. 

“They belong to the gods,” said Iubar. “It is 
unlawful even to look at them.” 

“Give them chase! Give them chase!” clamored 
Cuchulain. 

But Iubar was slow to obey. He was frightened. 
So Cuchulain seized the reins from him and away 
they flew. Lord, what a chase! You should have 
been there. Through a sylvan glen and off across 
a dark brown moor it led. The deer were obvi- 


83 


















84 


The Hound of Culain 


ously making for a stream on the far side of the 
moor. Most always deer make for water when 
pursued. When there are dogs in the hunt this 
stratagem is usually effective, for the dogs lose the 
scent. But here were no dogs. Still the deer seemed 
likely to escape, for the horses were tiring fast. 
Realizing this, Cuchulain decided on a daring move. 
Relinquishing the reins, he leaped from the chariot. 
We have said, and not unadvisedly, in an earlier 
chapter, that he could run fleet as a deer. He now 
set out to substantiate, to prove this. Over the 
ground, he sped at a tremendous pace. To Iubar 
it seemed that he was flying. Maybe he was. But 
running or flying he was gaining on the deer and 
that was the main thing. In an effort to shake him 
off, the deer suddenly swerved sharply to the right. 
But Cuchulain must have anticipated this move, 
for he swerved at an even sharper angle and gained 
by the maneuver. Speeding forward then in a last 
magnificent spurt worthy of a Cunningham, a Bron- 
thon, a Lovelock, he drew abreast of the herd. With 
outstretched arms, he flung himself among them. 
Two stags bellied the dust. Fearlessly, he gripped 
them by the antlers. His grip was a vice. They 
tried to shake him off. But they couldn’t. Ex¬ 
hausted and breathing heavily, they suffered them¬ 
selves to be led back to the chariot where Iubar 
helped make them fast with thongs. 

Upon resuming their journey, Cuchulain chanced 
to see, flying up ahead in “V” formation, a flock of 



The Hero Returns 


85 


swans, but swans of a whiteness, of a beauty such 
as he did not know existed. 

“Are they tame birds?” he wanted to know. 

“They’re as wild as yourself,” groused Iubar, 
“and you had better steer clear of them.” 

“Would it reflect to my credit if I brought some 
of them back to Emain Macha?” Cuchulain pur¬ 
sued, ignoring the warning. 

“Let us not delay but keep on; night is falling 
fast around us,” pleaded Iubar. 

“Whether it would be better for me to bring 
them in alive or dead, I don’t know,” Cuchulain 
puzzled. 

“Oh, as to that,” sighed Iubar reconciling himself 
to the inevitable, “it would be best to take them 
alive. Plenty there are that bring them in dead, 
but alive that no one has ever done.” 

As the chariot bowled along, Cuchulain drew 
forth his sling. He was a veritable David with a 
sling. Placing a round stone in the pouch, he 
twirled it around three times taking aim. Then he 
let go. As the stone came against them, the swans 
let out a frightened hiss that was heard for miles 
and eight of their number came tumbling down; 
all alive, wounded only in one wing. 

“Good shot!” Iubar cried. 

“I can do better,” said Cuchulain. 

Placing another stone in the sling, he tried again. 

He made good his boast. He did do better; in¬ 
deed he did. This time twice as many—sixteen to 



86 


The Hound of Culain 


give the figure—fell to his aim; all alive as before, 
wounded only in one wing. 

“I have enough now/’ he said. “Let you go pick 
them up, Iubar.” 

Iubar refused point blank. 

“Why won’t you go?” Cuchulain demanded. 

“The horses are going too fast to be pulled up 
and if I leave the chariot and they in motion they 
will break gait impaling me on the wheel knives or 
what is worse on the antlers of the deer there.” 
And he indicated the deer running along beside the 
chariot with a doleful nod of the head. 

“You are chicken hearted, Iubar,” scoffed Cuchu¬ 
lain. “But go retrieve the birds anyway. It is I 
myself that will fix such a fierce look on both horse 
and deer that the one will not venture to break gait 
and the other will bow their heads for very fear.” 

Somewhat reassured, Iubar vaulted gingerly from 
the chariot, landing safely. Ropes and other bind¬ 
ings he took with him and when he came back he 
had the swans tied in such skillful fashion, not one 
of their feathers was even ruffled. Leaping back 
into the chariot, he resumed his place at the reins, 
swearing solemnly and impressively that he would 
not stop again unless it was at Emain Macha. 

Now, there was a woman at Emain Macha and 
Leborcam was the name on her, Leborcam daugh¬ 
ter of Aed. Conversation woman to King Conchu- 
bar was she and it oftimes happened that she took 



The Hero Returns 


87 


long walks in the hills. Perhaps she found there 
among the vast heights and terrible silences the in¬ 
spiration that fitted her for her calling. But be that 
as it may, on her way home from one such walk, 
she saw from a hilltop a chariot racing across the 
plain towards Emain Macha and as quickly as she 
could go she went with the news to King Conchu- 
bar, for it was a frightening sight. 

“I have seen with mine own two eyes,” she 
reported half fearfully, “a fierce chariot fighter 
coming in this direction. Bleeding heads hang 
down from his belt. Wild stags tethered follow 
after him. Swans whiter than snow on the hedges 
lie at his feet and there is about him a fierce and 
terrible look of battle-fury such as I have not seen 
on man nor beast in all my three tens of years.” 

King Conchubar leaped to his feet and sum¬ 
moned his warriors. 

“Go men,” he bade them, “and head off this 
fierce fighter. I myself will follow after you to 
give him battle if need be.” 

The warriors needed no second bidding. Greatly 
excited, they ran to the Speckled House for their 
weapons, wrenching them from the racks in their 
haste. 

They were just about to start out when they 
were recalled. 

Wonderingly and a trifle dispiritedly, for they 
had not had a good fight for over a week, they filed 
back into the king’s compartment. 



88 


The Hound of Culain 


“Put away your weapons, men,” said King Con- 
chubar and there were tears of laughter in his 
brown eyes. “It has come to me that this fierce 
chariot-fighter is none other than my nephew, 
Cuchulain. He took up arms today and from what 
Leborcam tells me, I judge that he has acquitted 
himself well.” 

But then Leborcam spoke out, saying, “O King, 
you had best find some means of quenching his 
battle-fury else when he comes among us there 
will be harm done. I do not have to tell you that 
warriors when the battle-fury is in their veins 
scarce can tell a friend from a foe. You have ex¬ 
perienced it yourself, O King.” 

And King Conchubar replied deferentially, “You 
are a wise woman, Leborcam daughter of Aed. 
What would you suggest we do?” 

Leborcam thought for a moment before whis¬ 
pering her advice in the royal ear. 

“You are a twice wise woman,” lauded King 
Conchubar. 

The closer they came to Emain Macha, the fiercer 
raged the battle-fury in Cuchulain’s breast. He 
himself was not conscious of this. But then which 
of us is ever conscious of being tempersome even? 
Temper must die first. It simply does not occur 
to us before. We are too wrought up, too wholly 
occupied with venting our spleen. Iubar, however, 
was well aware of Cuchulain’s condition and not a 



The Hero Returns 


89 


little frightened by it. From time to time he mut¬ 
tered incantations to the gods, pleading with them 
to restore Cuchulain to himself again, to crush the 
flames of fury igniting him and if he be in any way 
infected by the demons that inhabited the sons 
of Nechtan Sceine to drive them out of him. And 
what did his gods reply? Nothing, unless it be that 
Leborcam daughter of Aed was their agent and 
through her were his prayers to be answered. 

The gates of Emain Macha were clearly in sight 
now. The horses, tired though they were, increased 
their pace. The stables! Oats! A straw bed fet¬ 
lock deep! All were within reach. So well they 
might gallop. Cuchulain gloried in this last mad 
dash. It seemed a fitting conclusion to his day. 
But what was happening? Why were the gates 
being closed against him? And who were these 
people in a state of half undress coming towards 
him? 

Ah, reader sing the glory of the women of Ulster! 
And sing their courage and their beauty! At Lebor- 
cam’s instigation, they had divested themselves of 
their upper garments and come to meet Cuchulain, 
to stay his battle-fury. Leborcam had told them, 
“Cuchulain is yet a tender youth. He is modest and 
easily shamed. The sight of your beauty, O Women 
of Ulster, will make him blush and wish to hide 
himself.” 

And it was even as Leborcam said. 

When Cuchulain laid eyes on the women of Ul- 



90 


The Hound of Culain 


ster coming towards him, he dropped his weapons 
and buried his face in his hands. 

Then did the women of Ulster seize hold of 
him and immerse him in a cauldron of cold water. 
But such was the heat of his battle-fury that the 
water boiled about him and the cauldron burst 
into a thousand pieces. Another cauldron was 
quickly forthcoming. This time the cauldron held 
together; the water, however, boiled over as before. 
Another immersion was necessary. 

After this third immersion, Cuchulain’s battle- 
fury was completely cooled and the women of 
Ulster dressed him in a shirt of gold and a green 
cloak with a silver clasp and on his feet placed hand 
embroidered deerskin sandals. 

Leborcam then conducted him to King Conchu- 
bar. His trophies were brought in with him and 
the moon was setting and the sun rising ere he 
made an end of the tale of his adventures. 



Part Two 


THE WOOING OF EMER 















CHAPTER NINE 
Cuchulain Visits Enter 


And now we are going to skip a few years, years in 
which Cuchulain furthered his ambition to become 
a great warrior whose renown would echo down 
the ages, enthroning him forever in the hearts of 
the Irish people; a very Titan of Courage and Chiv¬ 
alry. To be sure he did not escape unscathed the 
hand of Time during those years. He grew up in 
them. No longer a child, no more a boy, we meet 
him now a young man. 

A young man! Yes. And an adventuresome 
young man at that. Too much so, King Conchu- 
bar thought. He could not help recalling the proph¬ 
ecy of Cathbad the druid, and since he loved 

93 




















































94 


The Hound of Culain 


Cuchulain it frightened him to think of that early 
death preordained for him. If only he could re¬ 
strain Cuchulain from needlessly risking his life. 
But how was he to do it? Cuchulain was so brave, 
so courageous he would surely laugh at anyone 
who advised him to be cautious. It was not until 
he laid the matter before Sencha son of Ailill, the 
learned man, that a way out of the dilemma pre¬ 
sented itself. 

“Why not marry him with some fair, young 
maiden worthy of him?” was Sencha’s suggestion. 

That sounded like a sensible idea to King Con- 
chubar. A wife would have a steadying influence 
over Cochulain and by-and-by maybe there would 
be little ones; an added responsibility. 

Accordingly, on a morning not many days later, 
King Conchubar dispatched nine trustworthy men 
to comb Ireland from north to south for a maiden 
fit to be the wife of Cuchulain. 

A year later to the very day the nine men re¬ 
turned. Failure set their faces so abjectly that there 
was no need to question them. They had an ex¬ 
cuse of course. They held it impossible to find a 
maiden possessed of the six gifts Cuchulain had 
named and they starting out. Four of them—yes. 
Five—well maybe. But all six—poof! 

But on this score Cuchulain defended himself 
stoutly. Such a maiden did exist, he protested. 
Had not he himself found her while they were 
dawdling about the countryside? He had; indeed 




Cuchulain Visits Enter 


95 


he had and what was more he was leaving to woo 
her without further delay. 

The nine men were left without words. 

Cuchulain called for his chariot and ran off to 
dress himself in his finest raiment while the chariot 
was being yoked. 

It might be a good idea for us to start out ahead 
of him. Frankly we are curious to see the gifted 
maiden he has chosen for his bride. 

Our road leads us southward, down country to 
King Forgall Manach the Wily’s lush province of 
Lusk. 

There we find the royal palace set in Luglochta 
Loga, the Garden of Lugh, so called in honor of 
Cuchulain’s immortal father, the Sun-god. And 
on the lawn before the palace we see Emer the 
Fair, the king’s daughter, and she instructing her 
sisters in the delicate art of fine needlework. It is 
she that Cuchulain has found, for she and she alone 
in all the land is possessed of the six gifts of Chas¬ 
tity, Wisdom, Beauty, Voice, Sweet Speech and that 
which she is presently engaged at, the gift of 
Fine Needlework. 

We have not arrived a minute too soon. Hear 
the rumble of that chariot in the distance? Emer 
has heard it. 

“Go one of you,” she begged her sisters, “and 
see who it is that comes so swiftly in this direction.” 

Lithesome Fiall ran to do her bidding. 

When she came back she was breathless and 



96 


The Hound of Culain 


wide-eyed with excitement. “Guess what I have 
seen?” she panted. 

“What?” cried Emer. 

Fiall brushed back a straying strand of her 
raven hair. “I have seen two fine horses galloping 
side by side, their manes flowing free on the wind. 
One is a grey, a spirited beast; the other a black, 
a darling of a horse with white starred forehead 
and eyes flashing amber fire as he speeds along.” 

“What else?” prompted Emer. 

“I have seen a chariot rolling on wheels of white 
bronze. Copper its frame is; gold its yoke; the 
reins yellow colored and gleaming; the shafts 
straight and slender.” 

“Is that all?” mourned Emer. 

Fiall laughed softly. It pleased her to tease her 
sister. “A beautiful youth arrayed in costliest rai¬ 
ment rides the chariot,” she divulged, “and with 
him is his charioteer, a man reed thin with flaming 
red hair and freckled countenance.” 

“But the youth,” Emer pleaded, “tell us more 
of him.” 

“Oh, the youth,” teased Fiall. “Why, he wears 
a cloak of crimson silk over a white-hooded shirt 
embroidered in red and gold. In his right hand he 
carries a goad with which to prod the horses to 
greater speed. Beside him rests a spear and as he 
came near I glimpsed his face. ’Tis dimpled with 
four dimples of different hue. His brows are as if 
charcoaled; his teeth lustered like pearls. The 



Cuchulain Visits Emer 97 

finest gold threads in our sewing baskets com¬ 
pare not to his hair. His eyes . . . ? His 
eyes . . . ?” She hesitated, lost for a comparison. 

“His eyes?” Emer could not bear the delay. 

“Sapphires!” exulted Fiall. “Sapphires! Twin 
sapphires sparkling lovelight.” 

A delicate blush suffused Emer’s pale cheeks. 
She guessed who it was. Yet she was careful to 
hide the knowledge from her sisters. They would 
have told her father and he, planning as he was 
to marry her to a neighboring king, would most 
surely disapprove. 

But there was Cuchulain driving onto the lawn 
now. Catching sight of Emer, he stood still for a 
moment before leaving the chariot to drink in 
the freshness of her beauty. Then, out of the full¬ 
ness of his heart, he called a tender greeting. 

Here we must point out that the ensuing con¬ 
versation was spoken in a code intelligible only 
to Cuchulain and Emer themselves. This, no 
doubt, was arranged at their first meeting of 
which we have been unable to find any record. 
As lovers will, they spoke of themselves. 

“Tell me something of yourself, fair maiden,” 
Cuchulain pleaded. 

“There is so little to tell. As befitting the daugh¬ 
ter of a king. I have been brought up in the vir¬ 
tues of chastity and lawful behavior. In me, ’tis 
said, are combined all the graces of the women of 
Erin.” 



98 The Hound of Culain 

“All the graces and more/’ complimented Cuchu- 
lain. 

“And I have champions to guard me from those 
who seek to woo and carry me off against my 
father’s wishes/’ Emer added. 

“Who would those champions be now?” asked 
Cuchulain. 

“They are twenty strong. Eight are named 
Connal. Three answer to Luath; two to Lui. Then 
there are Lath Gouble, son of Tethra, and Brian 
and Bolor and Triath and Bason, son of Omanch, 
and Trescath and my own brother, Conn.” 

“Do you not hold me equal to those champions?” 
Cuchulain wanted to know. 

“It might be that I would, did I but know your 
deeds,” Emer replied. 

“I will tell them to you,” Cuchulain volun¬ 
teered readily enough. “When my strength is 
weakest, I subdue twenty. A third part of my 
strength suffices to rout thirty. By myself I give 
combat to forty. Led by me an hundred are safe. 
Because of me champions desert the battlefield. 
Whole armies flee panic stricken before my very 
gaze.” 

“For a youth those deeds are praiseworthy,” 
Emer admitted graciously. “But you are not yet 
of the strength of a chariot chief.” 

“I swear to you I will be, O maiden. My deeds 
will be sung by the poets.” 

“Tell me of your rearing, noble youth.” 



Cuchulain Visits Enter 


99 


“I have been well brought up by my uncle, 
King Conchubar. My days have been spent among 
chariot chiefs and champions. Druids, poets and 
learned men are numbered among my companions, 
and I have sat with the nobles and great land- 
owners of Ulster till I learned their manners and 
their gifts.” 

“Truly, you have had a royal upbringing.” 

“We have both had a royal upbringing, O 
maiden. We are of a kind. Do you not therefore 
think it fitting that we should become one?” 

“Alas, my father would frown on such an union. 
Besides there are conditions set for him who would 
woo me.” 

“What are the conditions, O maiden?” 

“He who would woo me must first overcome a 
hundred warriors from the Ford of Scenn Menn at 
Ollbin to the Ford of Banchuing Arcait.” 

“Is that all, O maiden?” 

“No, noble youth. He who would woo me must 
also go without sleep from the end of summer to 
the beginning of spring and from the beginning of 
spring till May-day and from then till the begin¬ 
ning of winter.” 

“I accept the conditions, O maiden.” 

“And I ... I will accept you when you have 
fulfilled them.” 

“Emer!” 

“What is it, Cuchulain?” 

“Look at me.” 



100 


The Hound of Culain 


“I am looking.” 

“There is a world of joy before us.” 

“A world of joy! But you must go now. You 
must not be seen here.” 

“Fear not for me. But if it is your pleasure, I 
will go. I will come again soon.” 

“Farewell till then, Cuchulain.” 

“Fairwell Emer, thou fairest of all fair maidens.” 

And with that, Cuchulain mounted his chariot 
and away with him. 

Alas, when Emer’s sisters went indoors it is the 
great talk entirely they made about Emer and the 
handsome stranger. Presently, King Forgall Man- 
ach the Wily gave ear to what they were saying. 

“Ah,” he divined, “the mad boy from Emain 
Macha has been here. The description fits no 
other. Doubtless, Emer has lost her heart to him 
and it is what I must do, I must put a swift end 
to their nonsense.” 

Scowling and with half-closed eyes glinting evilly, 
he laid his plans. 

Och, he was well named “Wily.” 




CHAPTER TEN 
The Ambassador 


Cuchulain was not long back at Emain Macha 
when there arrived at the palace a distinguished 
foreigner; an ambassador from the King of Gaul, 
he held himself to be. Came he to Ulster to con¬ 
fer with King Conchubar on matters of state and 
to present him with offerings of gold and works of 
art and wine of the Gallic grape. 

Ordinarily the most hospitable of kings, King 
Conchubar outdid himself on this occasion. The 
best was hardly good enough for his guest. From 
morn till night for three whole days, he enter¬ 
tained him regally. On the morning of the third 
day he formally presented him to Cuchulain, Fergus 
macRogh, Connal the Victorious, and others of 
the warriors of Ulster, following a magnificent dis¬ 
play of their battle feats for his benefit. That the 
ambassador was impressed by their skill was evi¬ 
dent to all. As the warriors passed in review before 
him, he showered them with praise. When he came 
to Cuchulain, however, he laid a fatherly, or per¬ 
haps patronising would be a better word; yes, it 
is; he laid a patronising arm about his shoulders 

101 

























102 


The Hound of Culain 


and said, “Now, here is a young man not yet fully 
developed. He should go to Scotland and study 
under Donnal the Soldiery and Scatach, the woman 
warrior. They will teach him all he needs to know 
to make him a truly great warrior; nay, a hero, 
for is he not patterned like a hero?” 

Cuchulain felt mortified. And yet, he reasoned, 
perhaps what the ambassador said was true. Even 
Emer had told him that he was not yet of the 
strength of a chariot chief. Well, he would accept 
the ambassador’s advice. He would go to Scotland. 
He would leave at once. But no, first he would 
see Emer and explain to her what had happened. 

Thanking the ambassador for his interest and 
advice, he turned away towards the stables. In 
less time than it takes to tell, he was on his way to 
Luglochta Loga. 

Upon his arrival, he found Emer troubled of 
countenance and nigh to tears. 

“I know why you have come,” she sighed wearily. 
“You are going to Scotland.” 

Cuchulain was taken aback. “But who can have 
told you?” he gasped. 

Emer brushed away a tear. “It was my father 
that went in disguise as an ambassador to Emain 
Macha. He is against our love and seeks to destroy 
it by separating us.” 

“Let you not upset yourself, O maiden, but let 
us pledge our fidelity to one another against my 
return.” Cuchulain knew that he had been trapped. 



The Ambassador 


103 


But his pride had been hurt and he resolved to go 
through with the visit to Scotland. Besides, he had 
often heard of the prowess of Scatach and Donnal 
the Soldiery and he was not averse to being 
schooled a while by them. 

Emer, however, found it hard to reconcile herself 
to his departure. 

“You may never return,” she sobbed. “My 
father says that if Donnal the Soldiery does not 
make an end of you, Scatach will; for both have 
harsh methods of imparting their knowledge.” 

“I swear by our love that I will return.” Cuchu- 
lain’s voice was confident. 

Heartened somewhat by his fearlessness, Emer 
lifted her eyes to his. “I will be true to you, Cuchu- 
lain,” she vowed, “even though the days of your 
absence be years.” 

“When I come again,” said Cuchulain, “it will 
be to fulfill the conditions set for our marriage.” 

Emer smiled through her tears. 

She was so beautiful at that moment that Cuchu¬ 
lain could not help himself; he gathered her into 
his strong, young arms and there beneath an azure 
sky they kissed as sweethearts for the first time. 




CHAPTER ELEVEN 
Adventure in Scotland 


Cuchulain did not go alone to Scotland. Fergus 
macRogh, Connal the Victorious and a warrior 
hitherto unknown to us, Loegaire Buadach, the 
Battle-Winner, went with him. This was because 
King Conchubar feared that something dire might 
happen to him. Could he have foreseen the hideous 
—we use the adjective advisedly—the hideous 
sorceress that would part Cuchulain from his com¬ 
panions before many days had passed, he would 
not have given his consent to the undertaking at 
all. But we anticipate. 

It was daybreak when Cuchulain and his com¬ 
panions set sail. Other than themselves the only 

104 




















Adventure in Scotland 


105 


thing stirring at that mystic hour was a flock of sea¬ 
gulls bickering and screaming on the gaunt, grey 
cliffs of the coast. Gallantly their little boat rode 
the white caps with Cuchulain at the rudder and the 
others tending sail. By the time the sun bestirred 
itself and rose gloriously golden over the rim of 
the horizon, they could see Scotland ahead clearer 
than Ireland behind. 

And so in time they came to Alba, and it was in 
the forge where he made his weapons that they 
found Donnal the Soldiery. 

More than anything else Cuchulain was im¬ 
pressed by his size. He stood seven feet if he 
stood an inch. A regular mountain of a man! And 
he wore a red beard down to his waist and had 
bushy eyebrows and icy, Scotch eyes that made 
Cuchulain think as he looked into them of a bot¬ 
tomless lake. 

Having carefully considered the events which 
followed we are inclined to believe that Emer’s 
father, King Forgall Manach the Wily, was in 
league with Donnal the Soldiery and had advised 
him to treat Cuchulain very harshly. We would 
even go so far as to say that he ordered him mur¬ 
dered. But we leave our reader to judge for him¬ 
self. 

In his forge Donnal the Soldiery had a bellows 
that was worked by jumping up and down on a 
flagstone over a small hole in the ground. So soon 
as Cuchulain had introduced himself and made 



106 


The Hound of Culain 


known his mission, Donnal the Soldiery ordered 
him to work this bellows. Cuchulain walked over 
to it. 

“Take off your sandals,” said Donnal the Sol¬ 
diery roughly. 

Suspecting nothing, but thinking rather that this 
was a peculiarity of the bellows, Cuchulain did so; 
he removed his sandals and leaped onto the stone. 

You won’t believe me when I tell you, but that 
stone was red hot. 

Cuchulain did not cry out though. He thought 
Donnal the Soldiery was testing his courage. So 
he jumped up and down, up and down, up and 
down; the soles of his feet blistering and bursting 
as he rose and fell. In no time at all he had the 
forge fire roaring at a white heat and showers of 
sparks racing up the wide chimney. But Donnal 
the Soldiery did not tell him to stop. He was tem¬ 
pering a piece of steel for a sword, it seems, and 
the fire had to be kept hot all the time. A day and 
a night and all through the next day and the next 
night he kept Cuchulain working the bellows. Not 
until the morning of the third day did he allow 
him any respite. By that time Cuchulain’s feet 
were livid and swollen beyond all recognition. Yet 
even then he did not utter one word of protest. 
What he did say was: “Have you the weapon fin¬ 
ished?” That; just that and no more. A Spartan 
remark if ever there was one. 

But Donnal the Soldiery was not through with 



Adventure in Scotland 


107 


him yet by a long chalk. After a little while, he 
said, “Do you see yon spear?” 

“I do,” said Cuchulain. He could not help but 
see it. It was set in the ground, point to the sky. 

“Go, leap on it,” Donnal the Soldiery told him. 

Cuchulain looked down at his mutilated feet. 
“Barefooted?” he asked. 

“Barefooted,” said the unrelenting Scotch war¬ 
rior. 

Cuchulain gritted his teeth. Then, running, he 
leaped and landed on the head of the sharply tipped 
spear. 

“Spin yourself around,” shouted Donnal the Sol¬ 
diery. 

Slowly Cuchulain began to turn. Slowly the 
spearhead ate its way into his feet. 

“Faster! Faster!” cried Donnal the Soldiery. 

Cuchulain increased his speed. ’Round and 
around he spun; a whirling dervish on a spear¬ 
head. 

Musha, ’twas the high price he was paying to 
become a great warrior, the poor chap. But he had 
yet to complain. That is what we like about him. 
No whiner was he; he was taking his medicine 
like a man, like a hero. Where to find his equal 
today? The warriors of the twentieth century are 
cut with a different scissors. They would be rebel¬ 
ling if they did not get enough milk in their coffee. 

Listen to this, you twentieth century warriors, 
Cuchulain stayed seven days and seven nights on 



108 


The Hound of Culain 


that spearpoint. Seven days and seven nights! His 
feet bleeding and festering! He did not rebel. 
He was a better man for it, he admitted afterwards. 
It taught him endurance. 

When at the end of those seven days and seven 
nights, Donnal the Soldiery permitted him to come 
down, he said to him, “Go into the house now and 
my daughter, Dornolla Big-Fist will set food be¬ 
fore you.” 

Dornolla Big-Fist! Our hideous sorceress! 

Cuchulain had never seen such an ugly, such a 
revolting creature in all his living days. 

Picture a tall, gaunt, malevolent-eyed woman 
with matted red hair, a black, warty face that she 
never washed, monstrous feet turned backwards, 
big, ungainly knees and hands the size of Irish 
hams. There you have Dornolla Big-Fist; hag and 
hideous sorceress skilled in all the soul-stifling rites 
of Black Magic. 

Strange as it may seem, Dornolla Big-Fist did 
not think herself at all repellent; as a matter of 
fact she was wont to compare herself favorably 
with the bonniest of Scotland’s bonny lassies. But 
we do not condemn her for that. What we have 
against her, among other things, is that she fell 
in love with Cuchulain at first sight and he was not 
five minutes in the house when, brazen as you 
please, she asked him to marry her. 

Imagine! Imagine the like of it! Imagine Cuchu¬ 
lain having anything to do with such a person! 



Adventure in Scotland 


109 


We must bear in mind, however, that Cuchulain 
was a gentleman along with everything else. He 
did not want to hurt her feelings any more than 
was absolutely necessary. He thanked her for the 
honor she did him and refused her gently. 

Nevertheless his politeness paid him poor divi¬ 
dends. Dornolla Big-Fist turned on him in a blind 
fury, raving and ranting, tearing her coarse hair 
and stamping her feet turned backwards. She 
would be revenged on him, she screamed. She 
would consult with her demons. She would sur¬ 
round him with devils. She would drink his blood 
before she got through with him. 

Naturally there was but one course left open 
to Cuchulain. He took it. Together with his com¬ 
panions he shook the dust of Donnal the Soldiery’s 
house from his feet and set out for the abode of 
Scatach the woman warrior. 

Dornolla Big-Fist watched them out of sight. 
Could they have seen the evil in her face they 
would, without a doubt in the world, have known 
that she was up to mischief and been on their guard. 
Alas, they dismissed her from their minds. 

From such neglect is danger born. 

How did Scotland impress Cuchulain? Did the 
beautiful plains on the mountaintops appeal to 
him? And what about the glens and lakes? And 
the rock tarns clear and deep on the summits of 
the ridges? And the purple and white heather? 



110 


The Hound of Culain 


Did it bloom any prettier than in Ireland? And 
the shallow lakes of the plains; what of them? 
And the beautiful valleys running northeast and 
southwest? And the river gorges? And the stark 
highlands? 

Ah me, we wonder if we will be considered preju¬ 
diced for saying that Cuchulain scarcely paid any 
attention to bonny Scotland? We hope not. 

Cuchulain was in love you see and bent on ac¬ 
complishing his mission and returning home to win 
Emer. If he noticed the country at all it was in an 
abstract way. It lay between him and Scatach the 
woman warrior’s. The lakes, the tarns, even the 
braes were but milestones along the way. He did 
not think of them once they were left behind. 

Walking now along a hilly road, he was asking 
Fergus macRogh if he thought the rain which had 
been falling in sheets for the past two hours would 
ever let up. A little damply, Fergus ventured the 
opinion that it might clear up by evening if the 
northeast wind died down. 

Putting the same question to a shepherd they 
met along the way, however, Cuchulain was sur¬ 
prised to learn that it was not raining at all. 

“ ’Tis naught but a wee mist,” the shepherd 
explained. 

Wet to the skin, Cuchulain felt inclined to dis¬ 
agree with him. Afterwards, while hurrying down 
a steep incline, intent on crossing as rapidly as pos¬ 
sible the bleak moor stretching out ahead, Cuchu- 



Adventure in Scotland 111 

lain suddenly pulled up short. His face was a study 
in surprise. His companions seemed equally af¬ 
fected. Each was asking himself could that which 
they saw be possible. Or was it a mirage? Bewil¬ 
dered, they turned and looked at one another. 

“Do you see what I see?” queried Connal the 
Victorious. 

“I see a familiar place,” admitted Loegaire 
Buadach, the Battle-Winner. 

“I do, too,” said Fergus macRogh. 

“I see Emain Macha,” Cuchulain blurted out, 
bolder than the rest. 

Such indeed was the case. There could be no 
doubt about it. There, right in the heart of Scot¬ 
land, on a lonely moor was Emain Macha, perfect 
in every detail. 

“I will go up to it,” volunteered Cuchulain. “It 
may be a trap to ensnare us.” 

“You will do no such thing,” Fergus macRogh 
started to say, but Cuchulain was gone before he 
had the words out of his mouth. 

Cautiously, Cuchulain approached the strange 
phenomenon. Quite clearly he could discern the 
Royal House, the House of the Red Branch and 
the Speckled House. They seemed so real at first 
that he half expected to see the Boy-Corps hurling 
on the lawn and to hear King Conchubar cry out 
a greeting. Drawing closer, however, he noticed a 
sort of unreality, an eerie unreality about the group 
of buildings. It was as if they were built of shad- 



112 


The Hound of Culain 


ows. And they appeared to be moving. A moment 
before he could have sworn they were twenty yards 
nearer. Still he was lured on by the mystery of 
the thing. He wanted to get to the bottom of it. 
He no longer believed it the real Emain Macha. 
It did not occur to him that Dornolla Big-Fist 
might have something to do with it. 

To his companions, intently watching, it ap¬ 
peared that he had already come up to the build¬ 
ings and passed them by without paying them any 
attention. Sensing something unusual, they ran 
after him, calling him by name. To their horror 
they found that an invisible wall held them back. 
Realizing then that forces over which they had 
no control were at work against them, they en¬ 
deavored in every known way to attract Cuchu- 
lain’s attention. But he, pursuing the will-o-the- 
wisp mirage, neither saw nor heard them. When 
he did look back, they had completely disappeared 
from sight. Thoroughly alarmed, he shouted their 
names at the top of his voice. No one answered. 
A ghastly silence enveloped him. And then the 
mirage disappeared. And suddenly a demonic laugh 
rent the air. He raised his eyes aloft. Poised in 
mid-air and wreathed in smoke, the head of Dor¬ 
nolla Big-Fist leered down at him. Then it too 
disappeared, leaving him shaken, bewildered and 
forlorn. 




CHAPTER TWELVE 
Monster of the Deep 


Alone then on the bleak and dismal moor, Cuchu- 
lain wandered haphazard, not knowing where he 
was nor caring. The loss of his companions weighed 
heavily on him. He would not have minded so 
much had he known they were safe. His agony lay 
in not knowing what their fate was. Then too he 
wondered about Dornolla Big-Fist. What would 
she do next? Were she but a warrior he would 
know how to deal with her. A sorceress was so dif¬ 
ficult to combat. He was not versed in Black 
Magic nor had no wish to be. Oh well, he solilo¬ 
quized, if the worst came to the worst he would die 
fighting. He was fated to die young anyway. 

In this despondent frame of mind, he continued 
his aimless wandering. Towards evening he came 
to the shores of a large lake. Tired, he sat himself 
down to rest by the water’s edge. Presently his 
attention was attracted by a commotion out in 
the middle of the lake. At first he thought he was 
witnessing the birth of a whirlpool, that ancient 
sucking terror dreaded and avoided by the mariner. 
The water eddied swiftly in circles. Gradually it 

113 




114 


The Hound of Culain 


assumed the appearance of a giant revolving wheel. 
Cuchulain observed, however, that where in a 
whirlpool the water is sucked down funnel-like in 
the center, here it appeared as if it were being 
pushed up from below by some terrific force. His 
lethargy dropped from him momentarily. He kept 
his eyes glued to the spot. The commotion in¬ 
creased. Waves formed, waves that overlapped and 
burst crashing on the shore. Then—oh, terrifying 
moment!—out of the depths and slowly into view 
rose a frightful monster. Python-like of neck, fierce- 
fanged of head, low, slimy and web-footed of body, 
it turned and stared straight at Cuchulain. You 
would honestly say that it had come up for no 
other purpose. What was Cuchulain’s reaction? 
He was not frightened. Repelled better describes 
how he felt. He did not stir nor move away. He 
sat there watching. The monster of a sudden began 
to move towards him. The sough of the waves 
against its sides as it awkwardly ploughed its way 
through the water was clearly audible. It was the 
same monotonous sound that a wave makes when it 
hits the belly of a rowboat. What was he to do? 
Fight? He debated. No, he was too tired, too out 
of sorts to fight. Besides there was little to be 
gained by fighting in this instance. If the monster 
followed after and attacked him, however, he 
would defend himself as best he could. With this 
thought in mind, he rose to his feet and, stepping 
out, headed inland. 





Monster of the Deep 


115 


When the monster came out of the water, it stood 
for a moment, its web feet flat against the earth, 
and shook itself as a dog does. Then with great 
deliberation, it started out after Cuchulain. Have 
you ever seen a duck waddle across a farmyard? 
That was the way it walked for all the world, but 
much faster. Its stride measured nine yards, two 
feet, three and one half inches. Naturally Cuchu¬ 
lain heard it. But he did not turn around. He 
stuck to his decision. The first move would have 
to be the monster’s. We reiterate that he was not 
afraid. Please bear in mind that Cuchulain knew 
not fear. He may have been startled at times. But 
that is not fear. Fear is when you tremble with 
fright and in your chest a searing flame burns icily, 
paralyzing you. Those symptoms never at any time 
visited Cuchulain. He knew them not. They were 
as foreign to him as light is to darkness. 

Doggedly, the monster pursued him. But can 
we really call it pursuit now? A number of times 
already it has caught up with him and could have 
attacked him, but each time it dropped back of 
its own volition. What can be the meaning of these 
tactics? We can but wait and see. 

There it goes again, lumbering forward, its 
python-like neck stretched forward, nostrils dilated, 
fangs bared, frenzied eyes rolling. 

Cuchulain could feel its warm breath on the nape 
of his neck and felt that the time to give battle 
had arrived. Drawing his sword from its scabbard, 



116 


The Hound of Culain 


he turned in his steps. As a flea is to an elephant 
so was he to the brute beast. The odds against him 
were a million to one. He knew it. Sword poised, 
he lunged. 

What followed was as unexpected as it was ex¬ 
traordinary. 

The monster sidled to one side and Cuchulain, 
carried forward by the force of his thrust, tripped 
and fell. Had the monster chosen to strike at that 
moment he would have been killed dead. But—and 
this is what is so extraordinary—it made no move 
against him. It stood absolutely motionless. Cuchu¬ 
lain knew not what to make of it. Picking himself 
up, he stared at the monster, puzzled, bewildered. 
Its whole attitude seemed to have changed. No 
longer did it look fierce and repellent. It actually 
looked friendly. It would look at him and present 
its side to him as if it were trying to tell him some¬ 
thing. It dawned on him that it wanted him to get 
on its back. But was this another trick of Dornolla 
Big-Fist’s? It might very well be. While he pon¬ 
dered the question, the monster came closer. Really, 
it was not such an ugly poor brute after all. Why 
should he not take a chance and mount it? Any¬ 
thing was better than wandering the moor. He 
had nothing to lose; everything to gain. 

“By Ruaire, I’ll do it!” he voiced aloud. 

And with one bound, he was astride the monster. 




CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

Enter Beset 


Of the wild ride that followed what can we say? 
It was at once a thrilling adventure and a horrible 
nightmare. You would never have thought such a 
cumbersome beast could move so swiftly; it literally 
flew over the ground fiercely eating up the miles 
with savage relish. 

Watchful and wakeful at first, happily a drowsi¬ 
ness crept over Cuchulain and he slept where he 
sat astride the monster’s back. He slept not for 
hours but for days. He might have been drugged 
so deeply did he sleep. And all the while his strange 
mount forged rapidly ahead, pausing neither to 

117 
























118 


The Hound of Culain 


eat nor drink nor did it stop to rest at any time. 

On the fourth day Cuchulain awoke. 

Where was he? To what unknown, to what 
fearsome destination had the monster transported 
him? 

Bewilderedly he looked about. His surroundings 
were quite foreign to him. That he was on an 
island was obvious. He could hear the sough of 
the sea on all sides. The monster had come to a 
standstill beside a rock-tarn. As tarns go it was 
fairly big; almost as big as a lake. Then with a 
joyous start he saw two boys out rowing. 

“Where am I? What place is this?” he shouted. 

But even as he spoke the monster with a sud¬ 
den twist threw him to the ground and bolted away. 

By the time he picked himself up the boys had 
disappeared. No doubt they thought the monster 
was going to attack them. But the monster had 
gone in the opposite direction. He could see it 
lumbering swiftly southward towards the sea. 

“Och, I am no better off now than I was before,” 
he mourned, “for I am still alone and I know not 
where.” 

Then he made up his mind to walk inland a bit. 
It occurred to him that there must be houses in the 
vicinity, else where had the boys come from? 

He had reasoned correctly. There were houses 
thereabouts; one in particular, a pleasant looking 
abode with a fuchsia bush in bloom by the door. A 



Emer Beset 


119 


maiden and her brother lived there and it was 
there that he knocked and asked for food and drink. 

When he had finished eating, he inquired of the 
maiden and her brother if they knew where Scatach, 
the woman-warrior, lived. 

“You are near it and you are not near it,” replied 
the young man enigmatically. 

Cuchulain asked him to explain himself more 
clearly. 

“The Plain of Ill-Luck lies before you,” revealed 
he. 

An ominous sounding name Cuchulain thought. 

“Yes, the Plain of Ill-Luck lies before you,” sol¬ 
emnly repeated the young man and because he had 
taken an instant liking to Cuchulain he decided to 
help him. “On this side of the plain,” he said, 
“men stick fast, while on the far side the grass rises 
high and strong even as a spearhead and impales 
them. It is what you must do you must take this 
wheel and this apple. Roll the wheel across this 
side of the plain and follow in its track. Roll the 
apple across the other side doing likewise and you 
will accomplish the journey without hurt or hin¬ 
drance.” 

Cuchulain took the wheel and the apple from 
him. “I shall not forget your kindness,” he thanked 
him. “But tell me is it on the far side of the plain 
Scatach lives?” 

“No. No, it is not. When you have crossed the 



120 


The Hound of Culain 


plain there is a glen you must pass through and at 
the foot of the glen a mountain you must climb. 
More than that I cannot tell you.” 

Cuchulain thanked him again. Then he said 
good-by and went his way. 

Across the Plain of Ill-Luck he followed the track 
of the wheel and the apple. It took him five days 
but he did it. Then through the glen and over the 
mountain he wended his way. That took another 
five days but he did it. At the foot of the moun¬ 
tain he ran into a group of Scatach’s pupils. 

“Where is Scatach?” he asked. 

They pointed to a nearby island. 

“How do I get there?” said Cuchulain. 

“There is only one way. You must cross the 
Bridge of the Cliff.” And they showed him where 
it was. 

Alas!—and alas! the Bridge of the Cliff was not 
an ordinary bridge. It was bewitched. The mo¬ 
ment he stepped on it at one end the other end 
lifted up and threw him flat on his face. 

Scatach’s pupils roared with laughter. 

Cuchulain tried again but with the same result. 

Between guffaws the pupils made nasty remarks. 

Infuriated, Cuchulain tried once more. Running, 
he jumped, landed in the middle, jumped again be¬ 
fore the far end had time to rise and got across 
safely. Looking back, it did him good to see the 
chagrined expression on the faces of the pupils. 

Scatach’s stronghold was but a few paces dis- 



Enter Beset 


121 


tant. He knocked on the door with his spear. 
Knocked, did we say? He drove the spear clean 
through it. 

And Scatach inside was heard to murmur, “Here 
comes one that has little need of my teaching.” 
And she bade her daughter, Uatach, go see who 
it was. 

Seeing so handsome a youth without, Uatach dal¬ 
lied conversing and . . . and—we may as well 
out with the terrible accusation—flirting. 

At last Cuchulain lost patience with her. “Take 
me to Scatach,” he pleaded. 

“There she goes now!” Uatach cried, for Scatach 
had gone out by another door and was on her way 
down to the great yew tree on the lawn to teach 
her two sons, Cuar and Cett. 

Cuchulain determined to follow her. 

“Let me first give you an advice.” Uatach 
caressed his arm, detaining him. “When you come 
up to my mother set your sword against her and 
make her promise to teach you without neglect, to 
foretell your future and to let us be friends.” 

And do you know that is what Cuchulain did. He 
pinned Scatach to the trunk of the yew tree. And 
Scatach screamed at him to name his wishes. And 
Cuchulain told her that she must promise to teach 
him without neglect, foretell his future and let him 
be friends with her daughter. And Scatach, fright¬ 
ened, promised. Then Cuchulain put up his sword 
and Scatach gave him his first lesson and that was 





122 


The Hound of Culain 


to run up a lance and balance himself on the point; 
a great feat entirely. 

In the meantime what was happening back in 
Ireland? 

Oh, a number of things. Things are forever hap¬ 
pening in Ireland. 

For instance? 

For instance, Lugaid son of Ros, son of Alamac, 
King of Munster, was on his way to woo one of 
King Cairbre Niafer’s twelve beautiful daughters. 

Yes, I know that sounds as if it had nothing at 
all to do with our story but remember the old Irish 
saying, “Step by step up the bohereen and through 
the mud we come to the farm.” 

You see, it happened that every one of Cairbre 
Niafer’s daughters was already betrothed and 
Emer’s father, King Forgall Manach the Wily, 
knew that. So he too was on his way to Cairbre 
Niafer’s to intercept King Lugaid and extol Emer’s 
charms. 

They met face to face in Cairbre Niafer’s recep¬ 
tion hall. King Lugaid had just gleaned the sor¬ 
rowful tidings that Cairbre’s daughters were 
pledged already and he looked very down in the 
mouth, I may tell you. The thought of going back 
alone to his great barrack of a palace was preying 
on his mind. 

“Why do you sorrow, O King?” Forgall Manach 
the Wily, began soothingly. “In my house is a 



Enter Beset 


123 


maiden fairer than you have ever seen; Emer, the 
darling of my heart! The loveliest maid in Erin.” 

“Do you tell me so?” King Lugaid brightened 
up perceptibly. 

“Come and see for yourself.” 

King Lugaid needed no second bidding. 

But when they came to Luglochta Loga, Emer 
was nowhere to be seen. For an awful moment 
King Forgall Manach the Wily thought Cuchu- 
lain had returned in his absence and carried her 
off. It was with a sigh of relief therefore that he 
found her sobbing as if her heart would break in 
one of the turret chambers. 

“Emer!” he bellowed. “Stop that nonsense! 
Dress yourself in your finest attire, wear all your 
jewels and have your sisters bring you to the 
Great Hall.” 

Poor Emer! Pity her. She knew what was 
planned for her: a loveless marriage that would 
involve the exchange of gold and livestock; in 
other words an auction, a sale. Distracted, she 
looked out the window, hoping for a miracle, hop¬ 
ing to see Cuchulain approach. The hills in the 
distance seemed to shrink with pity for her. They 
too looked down on an empty plain. Clutching the 
curtain, she wept. And then—O, terrible moment! 
—she calculated the distance from her window to 
the ground. Trembling, she drew back. Surely 
there was some other way than that? She knelt 
and kneeling prayed the gods to help her. And 




124 


The Hound of Culain 


when she had prayed her anguished heart was 
calmed and in the quiet moments that followed 
it was given to her to know what she must do. And 
she went to her fate as a great lady should. 

Entering the Great Hall with her sisters, her 
step was firm, her head held high. A saffron silken 
dress fell in marble folds to her feet. Draped about 
her slender shoulders was a green-hued scarf and, 
despite her father’s instructions, the only jewelry 
she wore was an emerald hung from a golden chain 
encircling her milk-white neck. 

King Lugaid rose to his feet. He was glad now 
that Cairbre Niafer’s daughters were all promised. 
Not even the loveliest of them—and she was very 
lovely—could compare with Emer. 

As Emer progressed the length of the hall she 
was joined by her father who took her by the hand 
and as they came to the foot of the dais whereon 
stood King Lugaid, he bowed ceremoniously and 
spoke the words of introduction. 

So entranced was King Lugaid that he dispensed 
with all formality and immediately invited Emer to 
be seated by his side. 

Emer paled. If she were to save herself for 
Cuchulain she must act at once. King Lugaid’s 
invitation amounted to a proposal of marriage. For 
such was the custom of the land. Were she to 
once sit by his side she would be his betrothed. 
Bravely she looked into his eyes. 

“You do me great honor, O King,” she said 



Enter Beset 


125 


humbly. “But surely my father has not neglected 
to tell you that I am already betrothed?” 

King Forgall Manach the Wily’s eyes blazed. His 
daughter was defying him. And before his very 
eyes. Unheard of thing. “You are not betrothed, 
Emer,” he interjected furiously. 

Emer did not so much as glance in his direction. 
“King Lugaid,” she said, “I am betrothed to Cuchu- 
lain, nephew of Conchubar, King of Ulster.” 

King Lugaid was startled. To marry Emer then 
would be to incur the enmity of Cuchulain. It 
might even mean war with Ulster. Both prospects 
appalled him. But on the other hand was not 
Emer worth, even for a brief time, any catastrophe 
that might follow? 

“Pay no attention to what she says, O King,” 
King Forgall Manach the Wily rudely interrupted 
his train of thought. “ Tis but a childish attach¬ 
ment she has for Cuchulain. Besides Cuchulain 
is out of the country in ... in Scotland. He may 
never return.” 

King Lugaid remained silent save for a noncomit- 
tal, “Hum.” He was waiting to hear what Emer 
would say. 

“I have vowed fidelity to Cuchulain,” said Emer. 
“I will not break my vow; no, even if he does not 
come back I will not break it.” 

She accompanied her words with such a fine air 
of determination that King Lugaid lost all hope. He 
recognized in her the type of maiden who would 



126 


The Hound of Culain 


remain steadfast to her vow even though Death 
be the penalty. Nevertheless he did not let this 
prevent him from venting his anger on her father. 

“You are a cruel parent, King Forgall Manach 
the Wily/’ he roared. “You should . . 

Emer did not hear the rest of his tirade. Tri¬ 
umphant, she had left the hall. 




CHAPTER FOURTEEN 
Cuchulain 9 s Chapter 


Who can tell us better than Cuchulain himself 
what happened while he was with Scatach, the 
woman-warrior? Hist! Shush! Let him speak. 

“The days I spend with Scatach were the happy 
days; they were so. She taught me many difficult 
feats that I did not know before. It was from 
Scatach that I learned the throw of the staff, the 
rope feat, the blade feat, the whirl of a brave 
chariot chief; she even showed me how to cast the 
hand-stone of the warrior, the most difficult of all 
feats. Indeed, I was deeply indebted to her and I 
took an oath that if there ever came a time when 
I could repay her, I would do so gladly. That that 
time would come, I did not doubt, but it came 
sooner than I expected and to make matters worse 
Scatach did not want me to do what I did. Even 
so I did it and afterwards she was beholden to 
me. 

“This is what happened. Scatach declared war 
on Princess Aife. Princess Aife ruled the neighbor¬ 
ing province. She was Scatach’s rival and, by the 
same token, her worst enemy. One day while I 

127 










128 


The Hound of Culain 


was thereabouts, she took it into her head to people 
part of Scatach’s territory with a sprinkling of her 
tribes. You never saw anything like the way Sca- 
tach carried on when she found it out. She almost 
had convulsions. In a loud voice she summoned her 
armies. The next thing I knew, the war was on. 

“To me, to be sure, the war meant an oppor¬ 
tunity to display my newly acquired learning nor 
was I unmindful that it would give me the fine 
opportunity to pay Scatach back for all she had 
done for me. You can imagine my feelings when 
she refused my services. Egged on by Uatach, her 
daughter, who thought herself in love with me, 
she told me that she did not care to have me risk 
my life. Me, mind you! A warrior! ’Twas a fine 
how do you do, wasn’t it? But you have not heard 
the half of it. In order to make sure that I would 
not gainsay her, she put a sleeping powder in my 
drink and bound me with chains while I slept. 

“It was a potent draught she gave me. ’Twas 
supposed to keep me asleep for twenty-four hours. 
But sure I woke up at the end of an hour and the 
chains that bound me I broke with a deep breath 
and I rose up and went out onto the battlefield. 

“Meeting up with Scatach’s sons, Cuar and Cett, 
I asked how the battle was going. 

“ ‘Not well at all,’ they reported gloomily. ‘Prin¬ 
cess Aife has three champion warriors, the sons of 
Ilsuanach, that are cutting a swathe in our army.’ 

“ ‘Where are they?’ said I. 



Cuchulain’s Chapter 129 

“ ‘Over there.’ 

“I looked over and sure enough I saw three pow¬ 
erful men, fullgrown and bearded. Wielding their 
swords expertly, it was true they were creating 
the terrible havoc. Scatach’s army was falling right 
and left. Something had to be done, I decided, 
and at once. Telling Cuar and Cett to keep back 
the rest of Princess Aife’s army, I bore down on 
the sons of Ilsuanach. The clash as we came to¬ 
gether echoed in the caves of the distant seashore. 
The onlookers said they were blinded by the red 
sparking of our swords. But I would not know 
about that. My battle-fury was raging inside me 
and I was fighting better than I ever fought before. 
When it was all over, the sons of Ilsuanach lay 
dead and I was alive, praise the gods that watched 
over me and kept me from harm! 

“Scatach, I don’t have to tell you, was jubilant, 
so jubilant in fact she forgot to censor me for going 
against her wishes. Princess Aife, on the other 
hand, was downcast. Faced with the loss of her 
champions she was in a fine pickle and no mistake. 
So what did she do but withdraw, herself and her 
armies, from the battlefield for the rest of the day. 

“Venturing forth on the morrow, however, 
Scatach found to her dismay that Princess Aife 
had found three new champions to espouse her 
cause. 

“ ‘Woe! Woe is me!’ she wailed. ‘Aife has en¬ 
listed the sons of Ess Enchen who are unconquer- 



130 


The Hound of Culain 


able. My own two boys will never stand up against 
them. What am I to do at all at all?’ 

“ ‘Let you not fret yourself so/ advised I. ‘I will 
go against them along with Cuar and Cett.’ 

“I won’t tell you what she said by way of reply, 
for ’twas full of nonsense about what a great hero 
I was. 

“And so at mid-day when the sun was riding high 
in the heavens, Cuar and Cett and myself sallied 
forth. Like ducks among hens the sons of Ess 
Enchen stood out from the rest of Princess Aife’s 
army. We roared out our challenge. The sons of 
Ess Enchen stepped forth from the ranks and came 
towards us. Heavily confident was their step; it 
raised little dust clouds as they trod the plain. I 
drew sword against one of them, Cuar and Cett 
tackled the other two. Both armies stopped in 
their fighting to watch us. Princess Aife in her 
chariot looked scornful of us. She was certain of 
victory. Poor Scatach was ill at ease. But let 
you not think badly of her for that. Her sons were 
fighting. As we crossed swords a mighty cheer 
arose on both sides. If cheering could have decided 
the issue, it would have been a draw. I pitched into 
my man as best I could. Cuar and Cett did like¬ 
wise. Princess Aife and Scatach began to scream 
advices that were lost on the wind. Of a sudden, 
Princess Aife covered her eyes with shaking hands. 
My sword had found its mark. Like a pricked bal¬ 
loon, my opponent crumpled up, sagged and fell. 




« k ^ A, 







































































Cuchulain’s Chapter 


133 


Remembering at that moment all I owed Scatach, 
I wiped off my sword and going over to Cuar told 
him to retire. I would take his place, I said and did. 
Out of the corner of my eye and I hard at it, I 
could see that Cett was hard pressed. So risking 
everything, leaving myself wide open—a thing I 
seldom am guilty of—I lunged. Luck was with me 
that day if ever it was. The second son of Ess 
Enchen tried to retreat, stumbled and fell forward, 
impaling himself. Princess Aife let out a shriek of 
anguish. But I paid no attention to that, I can tell 
you. Instead, I dashed over to Cett. In all truth 
he was in a bad way. 

“ ‘Back with you/ I yelled in his ear. ‘Two 
against one is not fair.’ 

“And that, my friends, was the beginning of 
the end. Sharp and short, clean and fair was that 
last duel. The third son of Ess Enchen fought 
valiantly—peace to his bones! But I was a match 
for him. He said as much and he falling; my sword 
buried to the hilt in his heart. 

“Lord, the fuss Scatach made over me that night 
was a caution! And Uatach told me she was more 
in love with me than ever and she entwined her 
arms about my neck. But I was thinking all the 
while of Emer and wondering how long it would 
be before I would feel her arms about my neck. 

“And then, of a sudden a messenger came into 
the banqueting hall, and whispered something in 
Scatach’s ear. It must be bad tidings, thought I, 



134 


The Hound of Culain 


for I could see that she was pale and trembling. 

“Bad tidings was the word. Princess Aife had 
challenged her to single combat. She was terribly 
afraid. Although she had never admitted it to a 
living soul before, she broke down and confessed 
to me that Aife was the one woman in the world 
she feared. 

“I would not be a warrior had I not offered to 
help her. ‘Princess Aife must first engage me in 
combat/ I said. ‘ ’Twas I that slew her cham¬ 
pions.’ 

“Throwing her arms about me, Scatach kissed 
me in front of everybody. I was that mad. . . . 
But never mind that now. ’Tis of the past. 

“Before setting out the next morning, I drew 
Scatach to one side. ‘Tell me/ I asked her, ‘what 
does Princess Aife love above all else?’ 

“This I wanted to know because in my sleeping 
I had a dream in which I heard a voice say, ‘Find 
out what Aife loves and you will be victorious.’ 

“ ‘That/ replied Scatach, answering my ques¬ 
tion, ‘is easily told. Aife loves her charioteer, her 
chariot and her two horses.’ 

“Coming to the place of combat, shortly after¬ 
wards, I let out a great cry, summoning Princess 
Aife. Before I could see where she came from she 
was on me. With one blow she shattered my sword, 
severing the blade from the hilt. Never in all my 
days had I been so near death. And to think it 
should have been at the hands of a woman! Ah 



Cuchulain’s Chapter 


135 


me! Princess Aife gloated over me, torturing me 
by delaying the fatal stroke. 

“ ‘You should have fought for Aife/ she jeered 
at me. ‘You are almost too handsome to kill.’ 

“I turned my head away. Then I remembered 
my dream. ‘Woe! Woe! is Princess Aife/ I wailed. 
‘Her charioteer, her chariot and her two horses 
that she loves above all else have fallen in yonder 
glen.’ 

“My voice must have sounded convincing enough. 
Princess Aife straightened up, panic-stricken and 
looked towards the glen. Seizing my opportunity, 
I sprang to my feet, wrested her sword from her 
hand, caught her around the waist and, tossing 
her over my left shoulder, made off with her to 
Scatach’s stronghold. 

“When I brought her in, Scatach was beside her¬ 
self with joy. At long last, her hated rival was in 
her hands. 

“ ‘Aife shall die tonight/ she exulted. ‘On a bed 
of red coals she shall die.’ 

“I was horrified. ‘Scatach/ I said sternly, ‘you 
are going to let Princess Aife go free.’ 

“ ‘Go free?’ Scatach looked at me as if I were 
gone suddenly mad. 

“ ‘On conditions/ I added. 

“ ‘Conditions?’ 

“ ‘She will give you hostages and her word never 
again to invade your territory nor bother you in any 
way.’ 



136 


The Hound of Culain 


“Princess Aife tried to say something but burst 
into tears instead. 

“Even Scatach’s heart was touched. ‘Do you 
accept the conditions, Aife ? 5 she asked. 

“Princess Aife nodded her affirmative. 

“ ‘And now, Scatach , 5 said I, ‘you must be fore¬ 
telling for me my future. It is the only one of my 
three wishes left unfulfilled . 5 

“ ‘You are going to leave us ? 5 She guessed what 
I had in mind. 

“ ‘ 5 Tis time I was going . 5 

“Scatach 5 s eyes took on a distant, a seer 5 s look. 
Haltingly, she commenced. ‘Cuchulain, great dan¬ 
gers lie before you ... At the Cattle Raid of 
Cooley you will be welcomed . . . The warriors 
of Maeve will come against you . . . Single 
handed you will repulse them . . . Thirty years 
I reckon the span of your life ... You will die 
a noble death . . . 5 

“She stopped and as one awakening from a dream 
looked about. Seeing Princess Aife was still with 
us, she said, ‘Leave us now, Aife. Leave us to say 
farewell . 5 

“ 5 Twas the fond farewell, the touching farewell . 55 




CHAPTER FIFTEEN 
Cuchulain and Devorgil 


And Cuchulain left the abode of Scatach, the 
woman-warrior, nor did he tarry nor meet with a 
single adventure until he came to the island of 
Rechrain off the coast of Ireland. He landed there 
on Samain night. 

A word here about Samain before we continue. 
Samain corresponds to the November Eve of mod¬ 
ern times. The Irish used to begin their year with 
this feast. You see they believed themselves de¬ 
scended from the God of Death and in his honor 
counted their time by nights instead of days. In 
view of this it is easy for us to understand why 

137 















138 


The Hound of Culain 


they began their year on Samain. By that time 
summer—the day of the year—had waned and win¬ 
ter—the night—was setting in. 

Now, Cuchulain had a purpose in landing on 
Rechrain on that particular night. Ordinarily he 
would not have bothered to stop there. But he knew 
that King Conchubar exacted tribute from the 
island and that it was paid on Samain night. More¬ 
over, it was the duty of Connal the Victorious and 
Loegaire Buadach, the Battle-Winner, to collect 
the tribute. Not having seen nor heard anything 
of his two friends since their mysterious disap¬ 
pearance in Scotland, he was naturally anxious to 
know how they fared. 

Visualize him now, climbing a narrow path wind¬ 
ing upward from the sea to the palace of Ruad, 
King of Rechrain. His heart beats lightly, not a 
dark thought disturbs the serenity of his mind. A 
vision of Emer rises up before him and he quick¬ 
ens his step as if it were to her he was hurrying. 
Overhead, the night sky is a deep blue and wispy 
grey clouds drift wraith-like across the pale face 
of the moon. Suddenly, a star tumbles from its 
lofty perch and falls down . . . down . . . fastly 
down and is lost to sight behind a mountain ridge. 
Cuchulain was inclined to accept this as a good 
omen. He interpreted it as meaning that men in 
high places would fall before his might. 

But who would have thought that on such a 
night in such a place a tragedy was being enacted? 





Cuchulain and Devorgil 


139 


Had anybody told him so, Cuchulain would have 
laughed at the idea. 

Entering the palace at last, he was welcomed 
rather coldly he thought by King Ruad. The man 
seemed preoccupied and a dismal air as of mourn¬ 
ing pervaded the palace. He inquired at once for 
his friends. Praise the gods! They were there. 
King Ruad took him to them in the drinking hall. 

At first Connal and Loegaire thought him a 
ghost and shrunk back, afraid. But he soon con¬ 
vinced them that he was flesh and blood and he 
plied them with questions. What had happened to 
them in Scotland? Where did they disappear to? 
When had they arrived back in Ireland? And 
how? 

Connal started to tell him and he was listening 
intently when a despairing wail rent the night air. 

If you have ever heard the west wind moan fit¬ 
fully in a sassafrass grove you know how the wail 
sounded to Cuchulain. 

“What was that?” he cried, starting up. 

If Connal and Loegaire knew they did not an¬ 
swer, but fidgeted and glanced uneasily, or was it 
compassionately? at King Ruad. 

“What is it? Is there Death in the house?” 
Cuchulain was driven to ask. 

“Worse than that,” King Ruad spoke gravely. 
“Worse than that. The wailing you heard is my 
daughter, Devorgil, whom this night I must yield 
up to the Formorians.” 



140 


The Hound of Culain 


“'Where is Devorgil now?” demanded Cuchu¬ 
lain, his chivalrous instinct at once aroused. 

“Below on the strand.” 

Cuchulain said not another word but turned on 
his heel and quit the palace. 

On the strand he dimly saw the maiden in the 
dark and she crying her eyes out. 

“Where do the Formorians hail from?” he asked 
softly. 

“The land over yonder.” Devorgil pointed 
towards the west. 

“I will stay with you till they come,” Cuchulain 
offered. 

“Oh, let you not do that. They are savages; sav¬ 
ages I tell you.” She wrung her hands. “A life to 
them is nothing.” 

“I will stay with you all the same,”—calmly and 
he did not address the maiden again but respected 
her anguish and was silent. 

Presently a boat appeared over the thin line of 
the horizon. Manned by three strong warriors in 
armor, it leaped through the water, pushing aside 
the waves as if they were ripples stirred up by a 
pebble. Within half an hour it grounded and the 
warriors leaped out and waded ashore. 

Devorgil laid a restraining hand to Cuchulain’s 
arm. “Go, go before it is too late,” she begged. 

But Cuchulain stood his ground. 

“Hoho! hoho! what have we here?” chuckled 
the leader of the Formorians, discerning Cuchu- 




Cuchulain and Devorgil 


141 


Iain’s outline in the dark and thinking him some 
young lad, some sweetheart of Devorgil’s maybe, 
come to make a showing of his courage. 

Cuchulain remained silent. Devorgil sensed that 
he was drawing his sword from its scabbard. 

“Who are you?” the Formorians now called 
harshly, not liking his silence and beginning with 
that prescience peculiar to warriors to feel them¬ 
selves endangered. 

Still Cuchulian did not reply. 

The Formorians advanced cautiously. 

When they were almost up to him, “This maiden 
goes from here only over my dead body,” Cuchu¬ 
lain said menacingly. 

His ultimatum must have puzzled the Formo¬ 
rians. They drew back, conversing in low whispers. 
Never before had they encountered any resistance 
on the island of Rechrain. 

Quick to take advantage of their bafflement, 
Cuchulain leaped into action. Like a shot from a 
sling he landed in their midst, lashing out right 
and left with his keen blade. 

Taken completely by surprise, the Formorians 
put up a poor defense. True, one of them did man¬ 
age to wound him in the arm. But he repaid that 
wound with Death to all three. 

His arm dripping blood, he turned to Devorgil. 
“Go back now and without fear to your father,” 
he told her. 

But instead Devorgil came close to him, knowing 



142 


The Hound of Culain 


him wounded. “First you must let me dress your 
wound. ’Tis dripping blood on the sand. I can 
hear it,” she said and without waiting for his con¬ 
sent she tore a strip from her dress, making a band¬ 
age of it which she applied skillfully. 

Cuchulain suffered her to minister to him in si¬ 
lence. 

So soon as she arrived back at the palace, Devor- 
gil related to her father that which had taken place. 
Of course, he asked at once for the name of her 
benefactor that he might thank him. Alas, Devor- 
gil did not know who he was. She had never met 
Cuchulain and in the dark she was unable to see 
his face. This, we are sorry to say, led several 
young gallants in the room to claim that they had 
saved her. Devorgil, however, did not believe any 
of them. 

Meanwhile Cuchulain had arrived and although 
he too heard the vauntings of the pretenders he 
said not a word. But Devorgil was determined to 
find out the truth or, as she herself put it, die in 
the attempt. Drawing her father to one side, 
“Oh Father,” she whispered, “invite our guests to 
bathe and look for him that wears a bandage match¬ 
ing my dress on his right arm, for he it is that over¬ 
came the Formorians; he and he alone.” 

King Ruad showed himself only too willing to 
humor her. The guests, one and all, entered the 
baths and Cuchulain stood revealed. 

“How now to suitably reward him?” pondered 



Cuchulain and Devorgil 


143 


King Ruad. Ah! since he had saved Devorgil, 
Devorgil should be his. He himself would pay her 
wedding dowry. 

We ask you, was not this an embarrassing situa¬ 
tion for Cuchulain? 

On being apprised of it he did not know what 
to say nor do. Were he to refuse Devorgil she 
would be humiliated even unto death. Besides King 
Ruad would be mortally offended. 

He was indeed in a deep quandary. 

Even if he confessed to being betrothed already 
to Emer, it would not help. King Ruad would 
expect him to renounce Emer. 

There was only one way out. He must play for 
time; time that mighty healer of all ills. 

“O King,” he said, “if it pleases Devorgil let her 
follow me to Ireland at the end of a year.” 

“She will follow you,” promised King Ruad. 

Cuchulain sighed. This was what came of rescu¬ 
ing maidens in distress. Oh well, events would 
have to take their natural course. Before him now 
lay the difficult task of winning Emer, of fulfilling 
her conditions. 

Thus musing, he went in search of Connal and 
Loegaire to see were they ready to leave. 




CHAPTER SIXTEEN 
The Winning of Enter 


When Cuchulain arrived home at last, King Con- 
chubar, everybody, was delighted to see him. For 
many days afterwards he was made much of. 
Feasts, games and dances were given in his honor 
and the men of Ulster never tired of hearing from 
his lips the tale of his adventures. Nevertheless 
he did not plan to remain long at Emain Macha. 
So soon as the clamor attendant upon his return 
began to die down, he ordered his chariot yoked 
and off with him to Luglochta Loga. 

If he expected to fulfill Emer’s conditions all in 
a day, however, he was doomed to disappointment. 
Try as he might—and he did try awfully hard, 
you may be sure—he could not penetrate past the 
twenty champions assigned by King Forgall Man- 
ach the Wily to watch over and guard his beloved. 
For a whole year he remained in the vicinity 
without once shutting an eye in sleep, but all to 
no avail. No, that is wrong. It did avail him some¬ 
thing. Unwittingly, he had fulfilled one of the 
conditions, that of going sleepless from the end of 

144 















































The Winning of Enter 


145 


summer to the beginning of spring and from the 
beginning of spring till May-day and from then 
until the beginning of winter. 

At the end of that time, he decided to return to 
Emain Macha. Had he given up hope? Certainly 
not. Surely, you have not forgotten that the time 
had come when Devorgil was to follow him to 
Ireland? He could not very well receive her en¬ 
camped, as it were, on the very doorstep of his 
betrothed. 

So one day, shortly after his return, he sent for 
O’Loeg, his charioteer. “O’Loeg,” said he, “today 
is the day I look for Devorgil to arrive.” 

“Where are you to meet her?” asked O’Loeg. 

“That I do not know,” Cuchulian replied. “But 
let us set out for the coast. It may be that we will 
meet up with her along the way.” 

Away they went, the two of them and when 
they came to the shores of Lough Cuan, O’Loeg 
drew Cuchulain’s attention to two strange birds 
flying overhead. Pulling out his sling, Cuchulain 
placed a stone in it and let fly. The birds came 
tumbling down. Aye, he had a great shot, Cuchu¬ 
lain had. O’Loeg hopped out of the chariot to pick 
them up. 

“By the mother that gave me birth, is it seeing 
things I am?” he ejaculated. 

“If you are, I am seeing them along with you,” 
said Cuchulain. 

What they saw was the two birds slowly chang- 


» 



146 


The Hound of Culain 


ing into beautiful maidens one of whom was De¬ 
vorgil, the other her handmaiden. 

When the change was complete, Devorgil said, 
“It is the evil deed you have done, Cuchulain. I 
came as I promised and now you have wounded 
me with your sling.” 

’Deed ’twas true for her. Her arm was bleed¬ 
ing profusely. 

Striving to make amends, Cuchulain pressed his 
lips to the wound and sucked out the stone that 
had lodged there. 

A chivalrous gesture? Yes. But one with far 
reaching consequences. Once having tasted of De- 
vorgil’s blood he could not marry her. It would 
have been against the law. Devorgil herself real¬ 
ized this, but too late. Pale and trembling, she 
drew back. Alone in a strange country, a maiden 
and friendless, what was she to do? Return home? 
That would be impossible. She would be the laugh¬ 
ing stock of the island. 

While Devorgil thus worried, Cuchulain was 
trying to think of some way out of the situation. 
It would be deceitful to pretend that he regretted 
the turn of events. But he knew just as Devorgil 
knew that she could not go back unwed to Rechrain. 
Luckily, he noticed in time that O’Loeg was im¬ 
pressed by Devorgil. There was a look in his eyes 
amounting almost to veneration. “I will tell you 
what I will do if it is agreeable to you, Devorgil,” 
he said. “I will give you my charioteer since I my¬ 
self cannot marry you.” 



The Winning of Enter 


147 


Shyly, Devorgil’s eyes traveled over O’Loeg. 
O’Loeg held his breath. He could hardly bear the 
suspense. Then Devorgil blushed prettily. “Your 
charioteer is pleasing to me, Cuchulain,” she con¬ 
fessed. 

With a whoop of joy, O’Loeg enfolded her in 
his strong arms. While we are on the subject, we 
may as well add that they were happy every day 
after that till they died. 

But now we must return again with Cuchulain 
to Luglochta Loga. This time he was determined 
to succeed. He had waited long enough. He be¬ 
gan to feel that he could not go on living without 
Emer by his side. If necessary he was prepared to 
cut his way through to her and with that purpose 
in mind, he had traveled in his scythe-chariot; the 
one with bladed wheels. 

Coming to the rath in front of the palace, he 
cleared its three ramparts in one leap; the hero’s 
salmon leap, ’twas called. He was then inside the 
stronghold. Emer’s twenty champions were gath¬ 
ered there and they with drawn swords, waiting 
for him. Recklessly and with all the tempestuous 
fire of his battle-fury, he waded into them. Hear¬ 
ing the commotion, King Forgall Manach the Wily, 
came rushing out to join the fray. Twenty-one 
against one! Think of it! Three blows of his sword 
did Cuchulain strike. Seven fell from the first, seven 
from the second and six from the third. Only King 
Forgall Manach the Wily was left alive. Perhaps 
Cuchulain did not wish to kill him. But sure he 



148 


The Hound of Culain 


brought about his own end, for in fleeing, he leaped 
and fell lifeless from one of the rath ramparts. With 
a clear field before him, Cuchulain boldly entered 
the palace. When he came out Emer was with him 
and her sister Fiall together with their weight in 
gold and silver. 

Wait! Do not hold him triumphant yet. To 
fulfill Emer’s conditions to the letter, he had yet 
to slay an hundred warriors from the Ford to Scenn 
Menn to the Ford of Banchuing Arcait. 

On emerging from the rath, he heard the angry 
cries and shouts of Forgall Manach the Wily’s sub¬ 
jects and loyal supporters. Hurriedly mounting his 
chariot, he shouted to O’Loeg to make all speed 
with the horses. Emer and Fiall, he placed, sitting 
at his feet the way they would be out of harm’s 
way. Chieftains, nobles, druids, landowners, peas¬ 
ants and even slaves tried to block their way. But 
the chariot swiftly racing mowed them down with 
its wheel blades. At the Ford of Scenn Menn, Scenn 
Menn herself came against them. Cuchulain was 
forced to kill her to get by. At Glondath, he routed 
a small army and Emer sang his praises. 

“It shall be called Glond-ath (Ford of the Deeds) 
hereafter,” said Cuchulain. 

After that they came to Rae-ban (White Field) 
where Cuchulain laid low the angry hosts of that 
place in consequence of which its name was changed 
to Crufoit (Blood Turf). 

At Ath n-Imfuait on the Boyne they were over- 



The Winning of Enter 


149 


taken by a band of pursuers. Emer and Fiall left 
the chariot while Cuchulain gave them battle. In 
less time than it takes to tell they were the pur¬ 
sued, he the pursuer. Northward he pursued them 
and clods flew so furiously from the hoofs of the 
horses that the Ford of the Two Clods is the name 
on the place ever since. 

And so it went all the way from the Ford of 
Scenn Menn to the Ford of Banchuing Arcait. An 
hundred men in all did he kill. Verily, Death 
sprung up in his wake. But he had fulfilled Emer’s 
conditions and when they came to Emain Macha 
he married her without further delay and great en¬ 
tirely was their happiness. Ever afterwards, did 
you say? Well, that remains to be seen. 





Part Three 


THE CHAMPION’S PORTION 













CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 
Bricriu’s Feast 


For over a year Bricriu of the Bitter-Tongue had 
been building at Dun-Rudraige a palace wherein 
to feast King Conchubar and the warriors of Ulster. 
Finished now, it resembled in design the House of 
the Red Branch at Emain Macha, but surpassed 
that building both in workmanship and the splendor 
of its appointments. It took a wagon team to haul 
each beam and seven men to set each pole in place. 
The frontings were of bronze overlaid with gold 
to a height of thirty feet. Particularly noticeable 
was the couch intended for King Conchubar. Set 
high above all others in the banqueting hall it 
sparkled and glowed with carbuncles and other 

153 





















































154 


The Hound of Culain 


rare gems. Worthy of special attention too was the 
balcony Bricriu had constructed for his own use. 
Overlooking the banqueting hall, it was richly dec¬ 
orated and studded with glass windows so that he 
could see everything that went on below. 

When all was in readiness, Bricriu himself went 
to Emain Macha to deliver his invitation. 

“O King,” said he, “I have prepared a feast 
worthy of you in my new palace.” 

King Conchubar was not visibly impressed. “We 
have heard much of your new palace, Bricriu,” he 
said carelessly. “As to the feast, let us hear what 
the warriors of Ulster have to say.” 

“We will not go,” they cried in one mighty voice. 
“Bricriu would stir up strife amongst us. We know 
him of old.” 

Unabashed, Bricriu pursed his lips in a particu¬ 
larly nasty manner. “You will fare worse if you 
do not come,” he threatened. 

“How so?” King Conchubar was fast losing pa¬ 
tience. 

“I will set father against son and mother against 
daughter till not one be left alive in all Ulster.” 

“Maybe we had better humor him?” suggested 
Fergus macRogh. 

“Take council first,” interjected Sencha son of 
Ailill, the learned man. 

“Else there is bound to be mischief,” King Con¬ 
chubar concurred. 

And so they met in conference and Sencha spoke 



Bricriu 1 s Feast 


155 


to them in this wise, “Demand hostages of Bricriu 
and when the feast is set surround him with eight 
swordsmen and force him to leave the banqueting 
hall.” 

These conditions on being apprised of them, 
Bricriu accepted seemingly in good faith. 

It is not without knowing our man that we say 
seemingly. No sooner had the warriors disbanded 
than he went up to Loegaire Buadach, the Battle- 
Winner. 

“Hail, mighty warrior,” he greeted him. “So 
great your deeds, so widespread your renown, you 
are entitled to the Championship of Ulster.” 

“I can have it any time I want it.” 

But despite the offhand manner in which he spoke 
Loegaire was flattered. 

“If you do as I say the Championship of Erin 
will be yours,” tempted Bricriu. 

“What would you have me do?” 

“You must win the Champion’s Portion at the 
feast.” 

At every feast in those days a special portion 
was set aside for the champion warrior. It was to 
this that Bricriu referred. 

“What is the Portion?” Loegaire inquired. 

“ ’Tis a cauldron of wine. ’Tis a young bullock. 
’Tis a seven-year-old champion boar and ’tis a 
hundred wheaten-honey cakes.” 

“And what must I do to win it?” 

“At the end of the day when the feast is set, let 



156 The Hound of Culain 

you have your charioteer rise up and lay claim to 
it for you.” 

“Is that all?” 

“ Tis as easy as all that.” 

“Then I’m your man. The Champion’s Portion 
will fall to me else there will be widows in Ulster.” 

Having thus incited Loegaire, Bricriu went next 
to Connal the Victorious and after that to Cuchu- 
lain and incited them in like manner. Certain then 
that there would be strife when all three rose up to 
claim the Champion’s Portion, he returned to Dun- 
Rudraige. 

On the appointed day when the feast was set 
the eight swordsmen led Bricriu from the banquet¬ 
ing hall as prescribed. He paused on the thresh¬ 
old. “Let you not forget to set the Champion’s 
Portion before him you consider the greatest war¬ 
rior among you,” he called out. 

Whereupon Sedlang macRiangabra, Loegaire’s 
charioteer, rose up in his standing. “Set the Cham¬ 
pion’s Portion before my master here,” he told the 
attendants. 

“Do no such a-thing,” protested Id macRian¬ 
gabra, Connal’s charioteer. “Set it before my mas¬ 
ter.” 

“Pay no attention to either of them,” cried 
O’Loeg, Cuchulain’s charioteer. “Set it before my 
master, for he above all others is entitled to it.” 

“He is not,” retorted Loegaire and Connal in 
the same breath. 



157 


Bricriu’s Feast 

“No?” Cuchulain drew his sword. 

Leering down from his balcony, Bricriu con¬ 
gratulated himself. That there would be blood 
spilled he did not doubt. 

Leaping over tables, upsetting couches, the trio 
clashed. 

“Stop them! Stop them, I say!” It was Sencha 
intervening. 

Not without difficulty were they separated. 

“Now hearken to me,” commanded Sencha. 
“There must be no more fighting here. When the 
feast is over let you go to Cu Roi macDairi for a 
judgment. The one to whom he allots the Cham¬ 
pion’s Portion then his will it be.” 

Bricriu fumed as the three, mollified, returned 
to their tables. Such a peaceful solution was not 
at all to his liking. Quickly he cast about in his 
mind for a way to stir up further strife. Surveying 
the hall, his eyes came to rest on the women of 
Ulster. Divided from the men, they occupied the 
south side of the hall. Why not set them at vari¬ 
ance? he pondered. When women fought they out¬ 
stripped men. They were better, more consistent 
haters. But how to rouse them? He turned to his 
wife for advice. It was not long before the two 
of them had thought of a plan. 

Presently Loegaire’s wife, Fedlem Fresh-Heart, 
chanced by, accompanied by her handmaidens. 

“Hail, thou fairest of maidens!” Bricriu called 
out to her. “So perfect your beauty, so famed your 




158 


The Hound of Culain 


gifts, you should enjoy sovereignty over all the 
women of Ulster.” 

Fedlem Fresh-Heart smiled, pleased by the com¬ 
pliment. 

“And you can,” Bricriu went on, “if you but step 
first over the boundary line of the hall tonight when 
the warriors call upon their women folk to join 
them.” 

“Then that I will do,” Fedlem Fresh-Heart re¬ 
solved. “It will not go well with her that tries to 
precede me.” 

A while later Lendabair, ConnaFs wife, happened 
along and to her Bricriu repeated what he had told 
Fedlem Fresh-Heart. 

Lendabair’s eyes blazed determinedly. “No one 
shall go before me,” she vowed. 

And then came Emer, beautiful Emer, and Bri¬ 
criu told her the same thing. 

“She that disputes my right to the sovereignty 
had best make her peace with the gods,” said Emer. 

The stage was set. Bricriu winked at his wife 
and chortled. 

Now, during a lull in the feast, Fedlem Fresh- 
Heart, Lendabair and Emer, each accompanied by 
fifty handmaidens, went for a stroll to a spot three 
ridges distant from the palace. On their way back 
they heard Bricriu calling to them that their 
husbands wished them to join them. At first they 
tried to make their pace seem unhurried but gradu¬ 
ally it developed into a run and they raced across 



Bricriu’s Feast 


159 


the sward. So great was the noise they made that 
King Conchubar and the warriors of Ulster thought 
themselves beset by an enemy. Hastily they sprang 
to the weapon racks to make ready for the fray. 
But Sencha, looking out, saw who it was coming 
and guessed what had happened. 

“Put up your arms and bar the doors,” he cried. 
“Bricriu has stirred up strife among the women. If 
we permit them to enter there will surely be 
trouble.” 

Emer, having outdistanced her rivals, arrived 
just as the last door was closed. 

“Let me in! Let me in!” she begged, beating on 
the panels with her tiny fists. 

Cuchulain jumped up but King Conchubar bade 
him stay where he was. 

“Let us be guided by Sencha in this matter,” he 
said. 

“This,” said Sencha, “must not be a warfare of 
arms, but a warfare of words.” 

“What do you mean?” asked King Conchubar. 

“Let each woman recite her claims to the sov¬ 
ereignty from outside and we will judge who is 
entitled to it.” 

“A sensible idea,” lauded King Conchubar. 

Placing themselves under the protection of their 
husbands on the inside, the women prepared for the 
verbal fray. 

Fedlem Fresh-Heart spoke first. Said she, “I, 
Fedlem Fresh-Heart, am of royal blood. I am 



160 


The Hound of Culain 


beautiful and fair of form in the eyes of all men. 
I am of lawful behavior and mannerly ways. My 
husband, Loegaire Buadach the Battle-Winner, is 
the mightiest warrior in all the land. He has rid 
the boundaries of our enemies by himself, un¬ 
aided. He is greater than other heroes; his deeds 
surpass theirs by far. So why should not I, Fedlem 
Fresh-Heart, his wife, be given sovereignty over 
the women of Ulster?” 

“Speak, Lendabair,” Sencha ordered from within. 

And Lendabair began, “I am of noble blood. I 
too have beauty and fairness of form and sense 
superior to that of other women. My husband, 
Connal the Victorious, who has not heard his name? 
He returns to me from the battlefield; the heads of 
his enemies dangling in his hands. He patrols the 
border and accepts challenges and overcomes the 
foes of Ulster. There is no earthly reason why I, 
Lendabair, should not come first into the hall to¬ 
night and be awarded sovereignty over the women 
of Ulster.” 

“Speak, Emer,” Sencha said. 

“I am of royal blood. From my father’s palace 
in Luglochta Loga came I here. You, the warriors 
of Ulster, said then there was not a more beautiful 
maiden treading the earth. But it is of my hus¬ 
band I would speak. Cuchulain! He is my hus¬ 
band. A boar for valor in all truth is he. None 
can compare with him. Consider his feats! And 
is not his darling body disfigured with wounds 



Bricriu’s Feast 


161 


received in the service of Ulster? So make haste 
and open up now and admit me, Emer, and on me 
confer sovereignty over the women of Ulster.” 

Hearing what the women said, Loegaire and Con- 
nal started up and, before anyone could stop them, 
tore two holes in the walls to let in their wives. 
But Cuchulain was before them. He lifted up the 
whole side of the palace so that the sky, the moon 
and the stars shone through and Emer ran in fast 
followed by her fifty handmaidens. 

“Hoho! hoho!” It is to laugh to think of what 
happened next. 

When Cuchulain let go the side of the palace it 
slipped and crashed seven feet down into the 
ground. Nor was that all. Bricriu’s balcony was 
dislodged and he was tossed into a ditch below in 
the courtyard where the dogs were kept. 

To be sure Bricriu did not think it a laughing 
matter. In fact he was very much put out and it 
is what he did he laid a taboo on the warriors of 
Ulster not to eat, drink nor sleep till they righted 
his fine palace. 

Oh dear! ’T would seem that it was easier to do 
the damage than to repair it. Although they 
strained themselves until their muscles ached, the 
warriors of Ulster were unable to budge the sunken 
wall. In their distress they appealed to Sencha. 

“Cuchulain is responsible,” said Sencha. “So let 
him fix it.” 

And so Cuchulain got up and tugged at the wall 



162 


The Hound of Culain 


but it did not give an inch. Then his battle-fury 
rose up in him and he exerted himself to the limit 
of his endurance. His hair was drawn back into his 
head and his scalp glistened with drops of blood. 
Slowly, with agonizing slowness, the wall began to 
yield. Calling upon himself for a final effort, he 
heaved a mighty heave that stretched his ribs six 
inches apart and swung the wall back into place. 

You would think that after that the feast pro¬ 
ceeded without any further disturbance, wouldn’t 
you? But no. Bricriu had sewed the seeds of dis¬ 
sension only too well. The quarrel over the Cham¬ 
pion’s Portion broke out afresh and it was not until 
Sencha reminded the disputants that they had 
agreed to go to Cu Roi macDairi for a judgment 
that peace was restored. 




CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 
The Giant in the Lush Meadow 


On the morrow Loegaire, Connal and Cuchulain 
prepared to leave for the stronghold of Cu Roi 
macDairi. 

“You go first, O Connal,” said Cuchulain. 

“I will not,” Connal refused. 

“You are afraid,” mocked Cuchulain. “You 
want to follow in somebody else’s chariot tracks. 
The green way you handle your horses and your 
rickety old chariot is a laughing stock.” 

“Do you mind what he is after saying, Loegaire?” 
implored Connal. 

Loegaire shrugged his shoulders. 

“Do not blame me,” he said loftily. “I am a 
champion in the chariot. I am a wizard at cross¬ 
ing fords. On high or low ground am I equally at 
home. I drive my horses skillfully through narrow 
passes and my chariot at the end of a journey is as 
it was in the beginning; unscathed, without a 
scratch.” 

Having delivered himself so boastfully, he leaped 
into his chariot and away with him. 

Swiftly he rolled across the Plain of the Two 

163 








164 


The Hound of Culain 


Forks, through the Gap of the Watch, over the Ford 
of Carpat Fergus, over the Ford of Morrigu, 
through the Rowan Meadow of the Two Oxen in 
the Fews of Armagh, onward past the meeting of 
the Four Ways outside Dundalk and thence west¬ 
ward to the slope of Breg. 

There he was forced to pull up. A dark and heavy 
mist lay over the ground and he could not see his 
way. 

“Let us remain here until the mist clears,” he 
proposed to his gilly. 

Then he got down from the chariot and the 
gilly unyoked and turned the horses loose in a 
nearby meadow. 

But while he was yet in the meadow the gilly 
saw a giant coming towards him. 

How are we to describe the monstrous creature? 
To the gilly he must have appeared as did Gulliver 
to the Lilliputians; towering tall and out of all pro¬ 
portion to the general scheme of things. The ground 
quaked beneath his step and over his shoulder he 
carried a whittled oak tree as a club. 

“Whose horses have you there, gilly?” he roared 
wrathfully. 

The gilly’s teeth chattered like castanets. “The 
ho-horses of my ma—master, Lo—Loegaire Bu- 
Buadach, the Ba—Battle-Wi—Winner.” 

“Do you tell me so?” raged the giant, lifting up 
his club and smiting the gilly a blow that shook 
him from head to toe. 




The Giant in the Lush Meadow 165 


The gilly screamed for help. 

Loegaire came running. “What are you doing 
to the lad?” he demanded of the giant. 

“Revenging the damage your horses have done 
my lush meadow,” replied he. 

“If that be so it is up to me to revenge the dam¬ 
age you have done my gilly.” 

And Loegaire charged him with drawn sword. 

“Hoho! hoho!” laughed the giant. “M take 
some of the starch out of you, my fine hero.” 

Reaching out a hairy fist he caught hold of 
Loegaire by the scruff of the neck and hurled him 
over a mountain seven miles away. 

Loegaire picked himself up and fled for his life, 
leaving his gilly, his chariot and horses behind. He 
was genuinely afraid. 

Presently Connal the Victorious, following in 
Loegaire’s tracks, came to that very same place 
and since the mist was as thick as ever—like home¬ 
made pea soup, ’twas—he got down from his chariot 
and the gilly unyoked the horses and turned them 
loose in the meadow. 

“Gilly, who is your master?” demanded the giant, 
rising up out of the tall grass where he had been 
taking a nap. 

“Connal the Victorious,” replied the gilly shak¬ 
ily. 

“Another hero!” And the giant struck the gilly 
a blow that rattled his bones. 

The gilly let out a cry. 



166 


The Hound of Culain 


Connal hurried to the scene. “For why do you 
beat my gilly?” he wanted to know. 

“For why did he set your horses grazing my lush 
meadow?” said the giant. 

Whereupon they came to blows. The giant let 
go with a kick. Connal went soaring through the 
air. When he regained consciousness he found him¬ 
self in the middle of the Peeled Plain twenty miles 
away and without looking behind him once, he 
started out at a run for Emain Macha, leaving 
his gilly, his chariot and horses to their fate. 

It was not long before Cuchulain drove up. The 
mist now was as black as night. To proceed would 
have been impossible. So he got down from his 
chariot and the gilly turned the horses loose in the 
meadow. 

“Whose horses have you there?” thundered the 
giant. 

“They belong to Cuchulain.” And the gilly trem¬ 
bled in every limb. 

“Cuchulain, is it?” 

Snorting fire, the giant brought down his club 
with a terrific whack. 

“Help, I’m murdered,” yelled the gilly. 

Into the meadow ran Cuchulain. “What ails 
you? Who murdered you?” Then he saw the 
giant. Without another word he flew at him. 

The gilly was fond of saying that never in all his 
days had he seen such an elegant fight as that which 
followed. Back and forth the length of the meadow 






















The Giant in the Lush Meadow 169 


Cuchulain and the giant battled, trampling the lush 
grass down into the ground till it looked like a 
ploughed field. There was no quarter given. None 
was expected. One minute Cuchulain seemed to 
be on top, the next it was the giant that had the 
upper hand. But the end came with unexpected 
suddenness. Cuchulain snatched away the giant’s 
club and forced it down his cavernous throat. With 
a horrible gurgling sound, the giant fell, choked to 
death. 

After this we have no doubt that Cuchulain was 
entitled to the Champion’s Portion. But will it be 
awarded to him? Time alone will tell. 




CHAPTER NINETEEN 
At the Court of Ailill and Maeve 


When Cuchulain returned to Emain Macha he 
brought with him the gillies, horses and chariots 
of his rivals. 

“Yours is the Champion’s Portion, O Cuchulain,” 
cried Bricriu of the Bitter-Tongue. 

“Not so! Not so!” protested Connal and Loe- 
gaire. “The giant in the lush meadow was a friend 
of Cuchulain’s from the fairy world with whom he 
conspired to deprive us of our claim to the cham¬ 
pionship.” 

“What’s this? What’s this?” interjected Sencha, 
the learned man, seeing that a fight was imminent. 

Connal and Loegaire repeated their false accusa- 

170 













































































At the Court of Ailill and Maeve 171 


tion, adding, “If he killed the giant as he says, 
why did he not cut off his head and bring it in with 
him for us all to see?” 

“Why, Cuchulain?” queried Sencha. 

“Why does a cat turn aside from the head of a 
rat?” 

“You would have us believe then that the giant 
was in some way contaminated?” 

“Yes. When I forced the club down his throat 
there issued forth from his mouth a stream of black 
blood side by side with a stream of green bile; bile 
of anger that the druids hold to be deadly poison.” 

“Your explanation rings true, O Cuchulain,” 
Sencha admitted. “Nevertheless I think you had 
better go with Connal and Loegaire to the court 
of Ailill and Maeve for a final decision.” 

Ailill and Maeve were King and Queen of Con¬ 
naught and their palace was at the rath of Crua- 
chan. 

“That I am willing to do, O Sencha,” Cuchulain 
replied. “For what I have once won, I can win 
once again.” 

This time King Conchubar and the men of Ulster 
decided to accompany the trio. Chariots were called 
for, farewells made and they were off, that is all 
except Cuchulain who lingered behind amusing the 
women of Ulster with his feats. Nine feats with 
apples, nine with spears and nine with knives did 
he perform at one and the same time and in such 
a manner that no one feat interfered with the other. 



172 


The Hound of Culain 


Then he borrowed three times fifty needles and 
tossed them high into the air so that each needle 
went through the eye of the other. Afterwards he 
returned each woman her needle into her own hand. 
But by that time O’Loeg, his charioteer, was out of 
patience with him. 

“You poor amadan,” he chided. “You have lost 
the Champion’s Portion. Connal and Loegaire are 
well on their way to Cruachan.” 

Cuchulain started up. 

“Yoke the chariot,” he ordered. “So pleasantly 
was I engaged the matter slipped my mind.” 

Connal and Loegaire were passing the slope of 
Breg when they heard Cuchulain come thundering 
along from behind. Furiously, they prodded their 
horses. The poor beasts responded gallantly. But 
sure they were no match at all for Cuchulain’s Grey 
of Macha and Black of Sainglenn, the finest team 
in the land. With a taunting cry he passed them 
by and as he disappeared over the horizon they 
saw him turn and wave mockingly. 

So you see although he started last Cuchulain 
arrived first at the rath of Cruachan. 

Queen Maeve was startled by the noise of his 
approach. 

“This is the first time I hear thunder and the sky 
blue!” she exclaimed. 

“ ’Tis not thunder, Mother dear, but a chariot 
that comes this way,” corrected her daughter, 
Finnabair. 



At the Court of Ailill and Maeve 173 


“A chariot! Describe it,” urged Queen Maeve. 

“A grey horse and a black horse. A chariot with 
wheels of white bronze. In the chariot a youth in 
armor; his face dimpled with four dimples of . . .” 

“Enough! enough!” interrupted Queen Maeve. 
“ ’Tis Cuchulain. If he comes in anger we are lost.” 

Suddenly the rumbling out on the plain was 
magnified a hundred-fold. 

Queen Maeve’s eyes widened with wonder. “Who 
comes this time?” she asked. 

“An host of the men of Ulster,” said Finnabair, 
looking out from her balcony. 

“An host of them!” Queen Maeve hurried away 
to give orders for their reception. Her voice echoed 
throughout the palace. “Handmaidens, prepare to 
put hearty welcome before the men of Ulster! 
Bring out vats of cold water. Ready the beds! Set 
forth fine food in plenty! Let there be ale on 
draught—our best ale! Gatemen, open wide the 
gates! In such great numbers do they come, it is 
to be hoped they won’t kill us.” 

How in the world room was ever found for them 
all is something of a mystery. Cuchulain, Connal 
and Loegaire were allotted separate houses. King 
Conchubar and the warriors of Ulster were lodged 
in the palace. ’Twas a big palace to be sure; as big 
if not bigger than Emain Macha and Emain Macha 
was no cottage as we very well know. 

The etiquette of the court demanded that they 
be entertained three days and three nights before 




174 


The Hound of Culain 


discussing the object of their visit. And they were 
entertained and right royally, too. To attempt 
to describe the feasting we would have to borrow 
the palate of a gourmet. It seems a pity that one 
is not available at the moment. On the morning of 
the fourth day Sencha rose up before Ailill and 
Maeve and revealed the cause of the dispute be¬ 
tween the three heroes. Ailill seemed reluctant to 
sit in judgment. It was outside his province to rule 
on such a question, he protested. Sencha pressed 
him. There was no better, no fairer judge, he 
pointed out. Ailill sighed and relented. He would 
require time, he said. They would not come to 
blows over that, Sencha promised. 

Thus with the arrangements concluded, King 
Conchubar and the warriors of Ulster returned to 
Emain Macha. Only Cuchulain, Connal and Loe- 
gaire remained behind to await Ailill’s judgment. 

There was a fairy cave on the hill of Cruachan. 
In fact ’tis still there for all we know. To guard 
against their enemies the fairy people kept three 
enchanted cats forever stationed at the entrance. 
Big and fierce as tigers were these cats and black 
all over except their eyes that shone green by day 
and flaming yellow come nightfall. 

But how do they concern us? 

Listen! 

Ailill was friendly with the fairy people. He left 
milk out for them every night and did them no end 



At the Court of Ailill and Maeve 175 


of favors. So when he wanted to test the courage 
of the three heroes it seemed only natural that he 
should petition the fairy people for a loan of the 
cats. 

That same night when the heroes were supping, 
each in his own house, he let the cats loose against 
them. As they pushed open the doors Loegaire and 
Connal made for the rafters and there remained 
the night long in fear and trembling. But Cuchu- 
lain faced the cat that invaded his house and struck 
out at it with his sword. Much to his surprise the 
blow glanced off it as if it were stone. Still it made 
no further attempt to attack him. Instead it lay 
down at his feet and went to sleep. 

At cockcrow next morning all three cats silently 
and mysteriously vanished. 

Shortly Ailill put in an appearance. 

Loegaire and Connal were still in the rafters, 
afraid to come down. Cuchulain sat calmly in a 
chair. 

“It was I that sent the cats against you/’ Ailill 
confessed. “I wanted to test your courage before 
handing down a judgment. Now I know it is to 
Cuchulain the Champion’s Portion must go.” 

“Not so! Not so!” Connal and Loegaire de¬ 
clared angrily. “It is men we strive against, not 
beasts.” 

Dishearted by such perfidity, Ailill returned to 
the palace. 

Noticing his sorrowful demeanor, Queen Maeve 



176 ' The Hound of Culain 


suggested that he send the three heroes to be tested 
by Ercol, her foster father. 

That seemed like a sensible idea and Ailill packed 
them off at once. 

So soon as they arrived Ercol dispatched them 
to fight the witches that infested the valley below 
his stronghold. 

Loegaire fared forth first. He was not long gone. 
Even so the witches had scrawbed him out of all 
recognition and torn the clothes off his back and 
disarmed him. 

Connal went next. Presently he came limping 
back. Not for ten Champion’s Portions would he 
face those witches again, he panted. Not content 
with nearly rending him limb from limb they had 
deprived him of his fine spear to boot. 

Oh, it is no lie but the truth; they were terrors 
entirely; and savage! 

Undaunted Cuchulain went down into the valley. 
Screaming and hissing the witches came against 
him. He fought valiantly. But for all that the 
witches bested him. They broke his spear, burst his 
shield and tore his clothes to tatters. 

Disgusted at seeing him fare so poorly O’Loeg, 
his charioteer, called out in derision, “Shame on 
you! Is it a parcel of old squinting hags you would 
be letting get the better of you?” 

Cuchulain’s battle-fury flamed to new heights 
and he lashed out right and left with his sword. 
One by one he downed the witches. They were 



At the Court of Ailill and Maeve 177 


cut practically to ribbons; their blood colored red 
the entire valley. 

As proof of his victory he took their cloaks back 
in with him. Sulking in a corner and nursing their 
wounds, Connal and Loegaire eyed him jealously. 

The following morning Ercol challenged them 
to single combat. They were to come against him 
on horseback one by one and man and horse would 
battle man and horse. 

Again Loegaire went first and as on the previous 
day made a poor showing. His horse was killed by 
ErcoPs horse and to escape a similar fate himself 
he beat a hasty retreat, nor did he stop in his run¬ 
ning until he came to Cruachan. 

Then it was Connal’s turn. Connal the Vic¬ 
torious! Can’t you see him proudly mounting his 
prancing stallion and riding into the fray? 

Wisha! Wisha! He should have stayed at home. 
If ever there was a pair he and Loegaire were it. 
Honestly, we blush for him. So soon as his horse 
was killed he ran for dear life and when he came 
to Cruachan he told Ailille and Maeve that Ercol 
had killed Cuchulain. 

But Cuchulain had thrown his leg over the Grey 
of Macha and “the Grey” reared up and killed 
ErcoPs horse. Ercol fell headlong and Cuchulain 
sprang on top of him and tied him to the back of 
his chariot and carted him off to Cruachan. 

Imagine how he must have felt when he found 
the people keening and in mourning for him when 



178 


The Hound of Culain 


he got there. Had not Ailill not come between them 
he would surely have killed Connal. 

As to Ailill’s judgment . . . well, turn to the 
next chapter. 




CHAPTER TWENTY 
The Three Cups 


For three days and nights after the return of the 
heroes Ailill set his back to his chamber wall and 
pondered how to award the Champion’s Portion 
to Cuchulain without incurring the enmity of Con- 
nal and Loegaire. 

At the end of that time Queen Maeve grew im¬ 
patient and accused him of being cowardly. “If 
you do not soon decide it is I that will decide for 
you/’ she threatened. 

“Och, ’twas the black day for me the day I inter¬ 
vened; the black day/’ moaned Ailill. 

“Oh come now/’ blustered Queen Maeve, “ ’tis 
not so difficult as all that. Loegaire and Connal 
differ as brown bronze and white bronze while 
Connal and Cuchulain differ as white bronze from 
red gold.” 

In order to grasp her meaning, it will be necessary 
for us to scrutinize carefully the events that fol¬ 
lowed. 

First of all Queen Maeve sent for Loegaire. 

“A welcome before you, O Loegaire Buadach the 

179 







180 


The Hound of Culain 


Battle-Winner/’ she greeted him warmly. “It is to 
you we have decided to award the championship. 
From this day forth yours is the sovereignty of the 
heroes of Erin and the Champion’s Portion and this 
cup of brown bronze with a silver bird chased upon 
it as a token of the award. Take the cup with you 
now but conceal it against your return to Emain 
Macha. Display it there when the men of Ulster 
are met together in the great, banqueting hall of 
the Red Branch and none will dispute the champion¬ 
ship with you.” 

In a dream Loegaire accepted the cup and put 
it to his lips, for ’twas filled to the brim with wine 
of an ancient vintage. 

“A toast to you, O Queen,” said he. “May the 
years pass lightly as days and the days lightly as 
minutes over thy beauty.” 

“And you, may you enjoy sovereignty a hundred 
years over the warriors of Ulster,” returned Queen 
Maeve. 

Loegaire then took his departure and Queen 
Maeve summoned Connal. 

“A welcome before you, Connal the Victorious,” 
she said to him. “Know that it is to you we have 
decided to award the championship. From this day 
forth yours is the sovereignty of the heroes of Erin 
and the Champion’s Portion and this cup of white 
bronze with a gold bird chased upon it as a token 
of the award. Take the cup with you now but con¬ 
ceal it against your return to Emain Macha. Dis- 



The Three Cups 


181 


play it there when the warriors of Ulster are met 
together in the great banqueting hall of the Red 
Branch and none will dispute the championship 
with you.” 

Whereupon Connal toasted her as follows: “May 
the gods ever smile benignly on you, O Queen, for 
verily you are one of their own; ’tis marked on your 
noble brow and in your eyes that set men’s hearts 
to thumping wildly.” 

“And you, may you enjoy sovereignty a hundred 
years over the warriors of Ulster,” replied Queen 
Maeve. 

And then she sent for Cuchulain. 

Cuchulain at the time was playing chess with 
O’Loeg and thought that the Queen’s messenger 
was mocking him. “Go tell your lies to another,” 
he told him, calmly moving a pawn. 

What else could the poor page do but tell this 
to Queen Maeve? 

“Ah,” sighed she, “Cuchulain’s rage is upon him 
because we have not awarded him the Champion’s 
Portion ere this.” And rising up she went out to 
him and placed her two arms about his neck. 

“Work your wiles on another,” said Cuchulain 
crossly. 

“Ah, thou bravest of all the Ulstermen, it is not 
on you we would be practicing our wiles,” said 
Queen Maeve. “Were all the heroes of Erin to 
come here this day it is to yourself we would give 
first preference; for thy fame, thy bravery, thy 



182 


The Hound of Culain 


valor, thy distinction, thy youth and thy glory are 
unequalled in the land.” 

Then she led him into Ailill and presented him 
with a cup of red gold with birds chased upon it in 
precious stones and she gave him too a beautiful 
dragon stone the size of your fist. “Conceal them,” 
she bade him, “until you are come again to Emain 
Macha. Display them there when the warriors of 
Ulster are met together in the great banqueting 
hall of the Red Branch and none will dispute the 
championship with you.” 

Cuchulain’s delight knew no bounds. 

“Moreover,” added Queen Maeve, “we have 
decided that since you are first among the warriors 
of Ulster it is but meet that Emer, your wife, should 
be first among the women. She should always 
precede them into the banqueting hall.” 

Then Cuchulain put the cup of red gold to his 
lips. “A health to you, O Queen,” he toasted. “Long 
may your life be, untroubled your reign, unfading 
your beauty that makes you the desire of the land.” 

What Queen Maeve meant is now apparant. She 
had rated the abilities of the three heroes in metals. 
It was a clever idea, for by giving each of the heroes 
a cup she was rid of them without incurring their 
enmity, at least for the time being anyway. But 
will the dispute be settled when the brown bronze 
cup and the white bronze cup and the red gold cup 
are displayed at Emain Macha? What do you 
think? 




CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 
The Stronghold of Cu Roi macDairi 


Upon their return to Emain Macha, King Conchu- 
bar gave a banquet in honor of the three heroes. 
Believing as they did, each of them, that the cham¬ 
pionship was his, they could hardly contain them¬ 
selves until the attendants brought in the Cham¬ 
pion’s Portion. At length one of the warriors of 
Ulster—Dubhtach Chafertongue his name was— 
rose out of his sitting and in a loud voice said, “Why 
is not the Champion’s Portion set before one of the 
heroes? Surely they have with them some token 
whereby we may know the winner?” 

Loegaire leaped to his feet, holding aloft the 
brown bronze cup with the silver bird chased upon 

183 











184 The Hound of Culain 

it. “Here is the token!” he cried. “Mine is the 
Champion’s Portion!” 

Already Connal was pounding the table. “Not so 
fast there, Loegaire, my fine friend,” he cautioned. 
“For I too bring a token; a finer token than yours. 
’Tis of white bronze with a gold bird chased upon 
it. So it is to me the Champion’s Portion must be 
awarded.” 

Meanwhile Cuchulain was chuckling to himself 
at the trick Maeve had played on his rivals. Nor 
did he say a word until the warriors of Ulster had 
carefully examined the two tokens and come to the 
conclusion that Connal indeed was entitled to the 
championship. Then he sprang his surprise. 

“The Champion’s Portion belongs neither to Loe¬ 
gaire nor Connal,” he said authoritatively. “Ailill 
and Maeve gave them those tokens by way of con¬ 
solation. Behold my tokens!” And he passed 
around his cup of red gold with the birds chased 
upon it with precious stones and his dragon stone 
as big as your fist. 

The warriors of Ulster examined them critically 
at first and then admiringly. 

“Cuchulain has the right of it,” they ruled en¬ 
thusiastically. “His tokens are more valuable than 
the other two put together. We are sure it was for 
him Ailill and Maeve intended the Champion’s 
Portion.” 

Scarce able to credit what had happened Loe- 



The Stronghold of Cu Rot macDairi 185 


gaire and Connal began to rave and rant. “We 
swear by the gods we will not accept this judgment,” 
they shouted. “Cuchulain gave of his treasures and 
his jewels to Ailill and Maeve for those tokens so 
that a defeat might not be recorded against him.” 

Then with drawn swords they advanced against 
him. 

Fortunately King Conchubar was in the hall. 
“Hold!” he cried. “I will not have any fighting in 
the hall of the Red Branch. Sheathe your weapons 
and be guided by Sencha.” 

Where the trio might have disobeyed another 
they did not dare disobey their king. Meekly, they 
put up their swords. 

“Now,” said Sencha, “since there is still strife 
between you, it is what you must do, you must go 
to Cu Roi macDairi for a judgment.” 

“We went once already,” grumbled Loegaire. 

Sencha shot him a dark look. “I seem to re¬ 
member, Loegaire,” he chastised him, “that you 
least of all arrived there.” 

At that everybody laughed and it was generally 
understood that the three heroes would set out on 
the morrow. 

This time they encountered no giant on the way. 
They unyoked at the gate of Cu Roi’s stronghold. 
Blathnat, Cu Roi’s daughter, put welcome before 
them. Cu Roi himself was not at home. He was 
campaigning in Scythia on the shores of the Black 



186 


The Hound of Culain 


Sea. But knowing by his gift of foresight that the 
three heroes would arrive in his absence he had 
instructed Minn, his wife, regarding them. 

A strange man this Cu Roi. Not since he was 
seven and took up arms had he blooded his sword 
in Erin. Nor had he ever tasted of the food of the 
country. He spent the greater part of his time in 
foreign parts and no Irish king could win allegiance 
from him though they tried often enough, dear 
knows. Moreover, no matter where he was, be it 
Africa, China, India or Scythia or even Greece, he 
never failed to chant a spell over his stronghold 
every night, causing it to spin around like a top so 
that the entrance could not be found after sundown. 
Truly, he was a mysterious and powerful being. 
Doubtless he had studied the mystic lore of the 
East and knew endless occult secrets. But anyway 
Minn always respected his wishes and where Cuchu- 
lain, Connal and Loegaire were concerned fulfilled 
his instructions to the letter. 

Come bedtime she told them they must take turns 
guarding the fort at night according to seniority 
until Cu Roi returned. 

This gave Loegaire the first night’s watch. Don¬ 
ning his armored tunic and buckling on his sword 
he went out into the dark. And it was dark! Indeed, 
it was a woeful night for a man to be out of doors. 
A gale was blowing in from the sea. The wind 
howled dismally like a woman weeping. The sky 
was moonless, starless; it was a brooding black 



The Stronghold of Cu Roi macDairi 187 


sky. Still Loegaire managed to grope his way to 
the sentry seat in a sheltered nook outside the wall 
of the fort. 

Slowly the hours passed. Rain began to fall 
around midnight; a heavy driving rain. Occasion¬ 
ally a flash of lightning divided the sky to be fast 
followed by a long drawn out, rumbling peal of 
thunder. Gradually, almost reluctantly, the dawn 
crept over the horizon. First it was blue and then 
grey and a rooster inside the stronghold heralded 
its coming with a clarion cry. The sound was sweet 
music to Loegaire. A few more hours and he would 
be able to turn in, he thought. He yawned luxu¬ 
riously, stretched himself and proceeded to watch 
the changing color of the sky. 

All of a sudden a monstrous shadow came creep¬ 
ing from out the west. It was the shadow of a 
man, of a giant; for he came quickly in the wake 
of his shadow. Loegaire had seen giants before, 
but never one so big, so hideous, so horrible as this. 
He might well have been a Cyclops or related to 
that race of man-eaters. Like the Cyclopes he had 
but one eye, or seemed to have but one since he 
wore a steel buckler over his face with a small hole 
pierced in the middle, corresponding to a single eye. 
Loegaire could see the sea sparkling between his 
legs and a veritable forest of trees dangling in his 
arms. What was he to do? Run? Where to? The 
stronghold was still revolving. He could not hope 
to find shelter there. Out in front was a plain that 



188 


The Hound of Culain 


ran for miles and miles and where there was no 
hiding place, no refuge of any kind. 

Swiftly the giant came towards him. Loegaire 
prepared to defend himself. As he did the giant 
threw a tree at him. He dodged to one side and it 
went hurtling by. He threw another and yet an¬ 
other. Both overshot their mark. Then Loegaire 
hurled his spear at him with all his might. Alas, 
he missed him. Then the giant reached over the 
three mountain ridges separating them and picked 
him up in his horny hand. He felt helpless in his 
clutch. He began to squeeze him, close his fist on 
him. A red mist swam before his eyes and his pulse 
began beating like hammers in a forge. And 
then . . . then he was flying, flying through the 
air with incredible speed. The giant had thrown 
him from him as he would a fly. With a sickening 
squelch he landed in a muddy pool inside the fort 
wall. 

When the men and women of the stronghold came 
out for the day’s work they found him there and 
since there was no entrance at that particular point, 
they naturally thought he had jumped the wall to 
challenge his rivals to the same feat. 

Quick to take advantage of their credulity, Loe¬ 
gaire made no attempt to disillusion them. Bruised 
and sore though he was he limped indoors, snicker¬ 
ing to himself at the thought of his rivals trying to 
clear the wall; an almost impossible task. It stood 
thirty feet if it stood an inch. 



The Stronghold of Cu Roi macDairi 189 


The next night it was Connal’s turn to mount 
guard. Except that it was a fine night his experi¬ 
ences differed not a whit from those of Loegaire. 
The giant came shortly after dawn. He picked him 
up in his hand. He squeezed him. He flung him 
over the wall. He landed in a muddy pool and he 
allowed the people of the stronghold to believe that 
he had jumped the wall. 

Then came the third night and it was Cuchulain’s 
turn. 

Cuchulain was not long in his sitting on the sentry 
seat when he saw coming towards him over the plain 
nine ghastly grey shapes. He knew not what to 
make of them. They might have been ghosts. 

“Hallo! hallo!” he called out. “Who goes there? 
Halt if it is friends that are in it!” 

The nine ghastly grey shapes raised a piercing 
wail and came stealthily forward. 

Cuchulain unsheathed his sword. 

“One more step and your lives are forfeit,” he 
threatened. 

His warning went unheeded. They continued to 
approach. There was nothing else for it but to 
attack them. 

We cannot describe the fight because it was 
fought in the dark. But Cuchulain killed all nine 
and cut off their heads and made a pile of them 
beside the sentry seat. 

Soon afterwards another band of nine like to the 
first drew near and then another band. He dis- 



190 


The Hound of Culain 


patched them all and added their heads to the pile, 
and with less ado than the first batch. 

With the coming of daylight he was to recognize 
them as wicked thieves who had disguised them¬ 
selves as ghosts that they might more easily plunder 
Cu Roi’s stronghold. 

But the night and its terrors were not yet over 
for him. 

As he sat tired and dejected, keeping the watch, 
he heard the waters of the lake on his left rising 
and heaving as if by some enchantment turning 
into a stormy, wave-lashed sea. Curious, he rose 
up and went to see what was the matter. 

What was the matter? 

A long-necked monster was rising up out of the 
middle of the lake, that’s what. 

It was a terrifying spectacle. The monster of 
Cuchulain’s adventure in Scotland was a bird of 
Paradise compared to this one. 

Slimy and drooling it moved its ponderous bulk 
onto dry land. Then, stretching out its neck, it 
lumbered off towards the stronghold, opening its 
mouth as it went; intent on swallowing the place 
lock, stock and barrel. 

But it reckoned without Cuchulain. 

Remembering the swooping feat taught him by 
Scatach, the woman-warrior, he sprang high into 
the air and swooped down on the monster, entwin¬ 
ing his arms about its neck. In vain did it try to 
shake him off. Slowly he began to shin up to its 



The Stronghold of Cu Roi macDairi 191 


mouth. Then, swinging himself around, he plunged 
his hand down its throat and tore out its heart. It 
stumbled ... fell. Cuchulain cut off its head and 
added it to his growing pile. 

By that time it was dawn, time for the giant to 
make his appearance if he were coming. 

Oh, he came all right! 

“Sad night,” said he, surveying the pile of heads. 

“It’s going to be sad for you too, you big gom,” 
said Cuchulain. 

Whereupon the giant hurled a tree at him. 

Cuchulain doubled up and it went over his head 
and buried itself in the ground. 

The giant fired two more with the same result. 
Then Cuchulain hurled his spear at him. The giant 
laughed as it whizzed by his ear and reached over 
the three mountain ridges to pick him up. 

Once more Cuchulain had recourse to his swoop¬ 
ing feat. High up into the air he shot like an arrow 
and circled ’round the giant’s head with drawn 
sword. 

The giant pleaded pitifully for his life. 

“My three wishes and you go free,” bargained 
Cuchulain. 

“State them in one breath.” 

“The Championship of Erin, the Champion’s 
Portion and sovereignty for my wife over the women 
of Ulster.” 

“Granted,” said the giant, disappearing instantly. 

Well, of course, that was all very well, but had 



192 


The Hound of Culain 


we been Cuchulain we would have asked the giant 
to lift us over the wall. 

But then—alas!—we are not Cuchulain. He 
really believed that Connal and Loegaire had 
jumped the wall and he would have considered it 
dishonorable—more power to him!—to take ad¬ 
vantage of them. 

So he took a running jump at it and nearly made 
it but not quite. The trouble was he was tired out. 
Nevertheless, he tried again only to fail miserably. 

“Ochone, ochone,” he sighed, “I will surely lose 
the Champion’s Portion.” 

But for all that he began at once to prepare for 
another attempt. First, he sprang backwards, 
somersaulting in mid-air and then he rebounded, 
somersaulting again and landing before the wall. 
Next he leaped high until he could see over the top 
of the wall into the stronghold. After that he ran 
swiftly over the ground, but so swiftly that he did 
not disturb the dewdrops clinging precariously to 
each individual blade of grass. He felt in good 
trim then. Going back thirty paces, he crouched 
low, counted up to three and was off to a flying 
start. 

By the powers, what a leap! What a darling of 
a leap! He was over like a hare. His footprints 
are still to be seen where he landed on the flags 
before Cu Roi’s door. 

Entering the house, he heaved a great sigh and 
Blathnat, Cu Roi’s daughter, came to comfort him. 



The Stronghold of Cu Roi macDairi 193 

“That is not the sigh of one who has tasted de¬ 
feat/’ said she. “It is a victor’s sigh. Well do I 
know what you have been through this night.” 

And even as she spoke her father, back from 
Scythia, had halted before Cuchulain’s pile of 
heads out by the sentry box. “The winner of these 
trophies,” he murmured, “is indeed a champion 
of champions.” And gathering them up, he brought 
them in with him. 

“Welcome before you, Cu Roi macDairi,” greeted 
Cuchulain. 

“These your trophies?” said Cu Roi. 

“His,” said Blathnat, answering for him. 

“Then it is to him the Champion’s Portion must 
go,” ruled Cu Roi and as a token of the award he 
gave him the worth of seven bondmaidens in gold 
and silver. 

Furious, does not properly describe Connal and 
Loegaire. “We will not accept that judgment,” 
they shrieked—they actually shrieked. 

“I will come myself to Emain Macha,” Cu Roi 
answered them sternly, “and when I do Cuchulain 
will prove before King Conchubar and the warriors 
of Ulster that he and he alone is entitled to the 
championship.” 

“Come to Emain Macha by all means,” jeered 
Connal and Loegaire. “But it is not to Cuchulain 
the Champion’s Portion will go.” 

And with that they took their departure. 




CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 

In Which the Champion's Portion Is 

Awarded 


Not long afterwards, on a day when the warriors 
of Ulster, tired of their games, had deserted the 
playing fields in favor of the drinking hall, they saw 
a tall ungainly churl coming towards them. Cuchu- 
lain was not with them at the time, nor was Connal, 
neither was Loegaire. It seemed to them that the 
churl was at least twice as big as the tallest of 
them. He wore an old frayed hide and a prison- 
grey cloak that fluttered about his person in tatters. 
Balanced across his shoulder, he carried a huge 
beech tree that would have given summer shade to 
a whole herd of sun-tormented, fly-beridden cattle. 
Terrible eyes he had; yellow, bloodshot and savage. 
As thick as a strong man’s wrist were each of his 
fingers. In his left hand he bore a great oaken 
block and in his right an axe weighing three times 
fifty cauldrons of molten metal. A team of horses 
would have been hard put to haul the handle and 
it was that sharp it split hairs blown against it by 
the wind. 

Of his own accord—without as much as a may 

194 










I 


The Champion’s Portion Is Awarded 195 

I—he entered the hall and picked out a place for 
himself by the fork-beam alongside the fire. 

“Who are you at all at all?” inquired Dubhtacht 
Chafertongue. “And are you comfortable? Have 
you room enough? Maybe you would like us all to 
clear out? Maybe you want to be alone?” 

If nothing else his sarcasm won him a hearty 
laugh from his fellows. Certainly it in no wise 
annoyed the churl. 

“My name is Utah,” he said, “Utah the Stranger. 
Came I here in search of something I have not been 
able to find in Erin; no, nor in Alba, nor Europe, 
nor Africa, nor Asia, nor have I been able to find 
a man that would deal squarely with me regarding 
it. Upon being told therefore that the warriors of 
Ulster were renowned above all others for their 
honesty as well as their strength, prowess, valor, 
and dignity, I made my way here, hoping to find 
one among you that would grant me my boon.” 

“Faith, it seems to me that the honor of the 
province is at stake!” ejaculated Fergus macRogh. 

“What is the boon?” pressed Dubhtacht Chafer- 
tongue. 

“It is that I want one of you to pick up my axe 
and cut off my head tonight and I will cut off his 
head tomorrow night.” 

No, the writer has not suddenly taken leave of 
his senses. That is what he said. I know it sounds 
strange, even funny. But that cannot be helped. 

“I make an exception of King Conchubar because 




196 


The Hound of Culain 


of his kingship,” he continued, “and of Fergus 
macRogh because of his high position. But all 
others are eligible.” 

“There is no warrior here after those two,” said 
Dubhtacht Chafertongue. 

“Hold your horses! There will be in a minute!” 
cried Muremur macGerrind and he leaped out onto 
the floor of the hall. 

Muremur whom we have not met before was one 
of the warriors of Ulster, supposedly possessed of 
the strength of a hundred. 

“Bend down,” he commanded the churl, “that I 
may cut off your head and you cut off mine to¬ 
morrow night.” 

Then he laid hold to the axe and the churl 
stretched his neck across the block. Muremur dealt 
him a blow. His head rolled to the floor and all at 
once the hall reeked and was filled with blood. 

But a few minutes afterwards the churl got up, 
picked up his head and silently took his departure. 

“By macDatho’s Pig!” exclaimed Dubhtacht 
Chafertongue. “If after being killed tonight he 
comes back tomorrow night he will not leave a live 
man living in Ulster.” 

Did he come back? To be sure he came back 
and that lout Muremur ran away and hid himself 
out of sight, terrified. 

But that night Loegaire Buadach the Battle- 
Winner was in the hall. 

“Who of the warriors that contest the Champion’s 



The Champion’s Portion Is Awarded 197 


Portion will grant me my boon?” asked the churl. 

“I will, faith,” volunteered Loegaire. And he did 
in so much as he lopped off the churl’s head. But 
when the churl returned the following night he was 
nowhere to be found. 

So that night it was Connal the Victorious that 
wielded the axe; but sure he like the others did not 
live up to his promise and the churl waxed indignant 
and began to berate the warriors of Ulster. 

“A poor lot you are. Your honor is forever lost 
to you. But where is that mad lad, Cuchulain? 
Maybe his word is better than the others.” 

And Cuchulain who was present that night 
answered, “I want nothing to do with you.” 

“That’s more than likely,” taunted the churl. 
“It is what I expected of you. Greatly do you fear 
to die.” 

With that Cuchulain seized the axe and dealt 
him a blow that sent his head up in the rafters and 
the whole hall shook with the force of it. But the 
churl as before picked up his head and walked off. 

On the morrow everybody was watching Cuchu¬ 
lain to see would he shirk the churl as Muremur, 
Loegaire and Connal had done. He appeared de¬ 
jected, ’tis true—who would not? Still he made 
no effort to conceal himself. 

When the churl came he called out for him in a 

loud voice. 

“Here I am,” said Cuchulain quietly. 

“Ah, little one, few indeed are your words this 




198 


'The Hound of Culain 


night,” said the churl. “Great indeed is your fear 
of death. Even so you have kept your covenant 
with me.” 

Then did Cuchulain stretch his neck across the 
block that was so big his neck only reached half 
way across it. 

“Stretch your neck, villain!” roared the churl. 

“You are keeping me in torment,” accused 
Cuchulain. “Last night I did not torment you but 
dispatched you without delay. Do you the same 
for me.” 

“I cannot slay you unless you stretch your neck,” 
protested the giant. 

Whereupon Cuchulain stretched his neck so that 
a bird could have nested in between any two of his 
ribs. The churl raised the axe till it touched the 
roof and the creaking of his old hide and the noise 
of the axe in the rafters was the noise of trees that 
fall struck by lightning of a stormy night. 

But when the churl brought the axe down it was 
on its blunt side and it hit the floor. 

“O Cuchulain arise!” cried he. “For you are 
first among the heroes of Erin; none can be found to 
compare with you in valor and truthfulness. The 
sovereignty of the heroes of Erin is yours from this 
day forth and the Champion’s Portion and pre¬ 
cedence to your wife over the women of Ulster. And 
whosoever shall dispute the championship with you 
henceforth, I swear by the gods of my people, his 
life will be endangered; he will thaw like ice.” 



The Champion's Portion Is Awarded 199 

A strange transformation had taken place in the 
churl as he spoke. Connal and Loegaire could not 
believe their eyes. But surely you have guessed? 
Yes, Utah the Stranger was Cu Roi macDairi in 
disguise come to keep his promise to Cuchulain. 

And thus was the dispute over the Champion’s 
Portion settled for all time; not that we ever 
doubted who it would go to for a moment. 

Bravo Cuchulain! 













Part Four 


THE PASSING OF CUCHULAIN 



CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 
The Occasion of the Cattle Raid of Cooley 

When Scatach, the woman-warrior, foretold the 
future of Cuchulain she said among other things 
that he would be welcomed at the Cattle Raid of 
Cooley. Being come now to that part of our story 
that embraces the Cattle Raid of Cooley we shall 
begin by recounting the occasion of the raid. 

It happened one time and Ailill and Maeve abed, 
they made pillow-talk. 

“True it is,” said Ailill, “fortunate is the woman 
that has a rich man for husband.” 

“Aye, ’tis true,” Maeve agreed. “But why do you 
say so?” 


203 
































204 The Hound of Culain 

“Because you are better off than before we were 
wedded.” 

“That,” retorted Maeve, “is not so. I was 
wealthy in my own right from birth.” 

“ ’Tis strange that this is the first I hear of it,” 
said Ailill. “A woman’s wealth was all you had 
and that your foes thefted and you not raising a 
hand to stop them.” 

“A likely tale!” scoffed Maeve. “Eochaod, son 
of Finn, High King of Erin, was my father. Of 
his six daughters it is I was best of them, best in 
looks, in strife and in combat. Three times five 
hundred hostages and a like number of freedman 
were my standing army. The province of Cruachan 
my father bestowed on me wherefore am I called 
Maeve of Cruachan. From early girlhood I was 
deafened with proposals of marriage. Messengers 
came from the King of Leinster seeking my hand, 
and from the King of Tara; aye, and from King 
Conchubar too, but I refused them, for it is I that 
demanded the unusual marriage-portion: a husband 
without meanness, without fear and without jeal¬ 
ousy. It would have suited me ill that my husband 
have a tight fist and I generous, always with the 
open hand. Nor would it have pleased me to find 
him cowardly when I am a warrior without peer, a 
terror before heroes on the battlefield. And if he 
were jealous, my husband, he would not suit me 
either, for I never saw the day when I was not 
surrounded by admirers. 



The Cattle Raid of Cooley 205 


“And it was in you, Ailill, that I found such a 
husband. You were not mean nor cowardly nor 
jealous. And I wooed you and gave you the good 
purchase price, namely, the raiment of twelve 
men, a chariot worth three times seven bond- 
maidens, the width of your face of red gold and the 
weight of my left forearm of white bronze. And 
if it is the truth you seek, it is the slave of a woman 
you are, a man under a woman’s keep.” 

“You do me wrong,” protested Ailill. “For I am 
a king’s son with two brothers even now serving 
their kingship, one over Tara, ’tother over Leinster, 
and I could have been king in their place but that 
they were older than me and I had compassion on 
them. Besides this was the only province in Erin 
under a woman’s keeping. That is why I came here 
and took the kingship as my mother’s successor, 
for was not my mother, Mata of Muresc, daughter 
of Matach, King of Connaught? And if I took you 
for wife it was that it seemed fitting I should have 
by my side a daughter of the High King of Erin.” 

“Even so,” persisted Maeve, “my riches are 
greater than yours.” 

“You are dreaming, woman,” belittled Ailill. 
“There is nobody in Erin with greater riches than 
myself.” 

“Dreaming, is it?” Maeve’s eyes darted fire. “Let 
us have our riches brought forth for comparison and 
see who is dreaming.” 

Forthwith they arose and their attendants 



206 


The Hound of Culain 


brought before them their drinking vessels, their 
jugs, their vats, their eared pitchers and all things 
of the household and they found that neither had 
one more than the other. Then their brooches, their 
amulets, their rings, their chains were brought in 
and their raiment too; crimson raiment, purple, 
black and green, and again they found that neither 
had one more than the other. And so their horses 
were brought in and their flocks of sheep from the 
hillsides and their droves of swine from the woods 
but they did not find one the other could not match. 
Lastly their herds of cattle were rounded up from 
the lands adjoining the bogs and marshes. Heifer 
for heifer, bullock for bullock, cow for cow, calf for 
calf, and bull for bull, they were set aside. One bull 
remained. It was the best bull, the biggest bull, the 
champion bull of all. He was calved in Maeve’s 
herds and Finnebennach, the White-horned was his 
name. But thinking it a disgrace to be owned by 
a woman he had gone over to Ailill of his own 
accord. And when Maeve saw him and realized 
that Ailill had one more bull and therefore more 
riches than she, she was so vexed you would think 
she did not have a rag to her name. But she did 
not admit defeat. 

“Where,” she asked macRoth, her messenger, 
“can I find just such another bull?” 

“There is a bull every bit as good only better,” 
said he, “in the house of Dairi in the province of 
Cooley; the Donn of Cooley is his name.” 



The Cattle Raid of Cooley 207 


“Go at once then all speed to Dairi,” ordered 
Maeve, “and ask him for me for the loan of the 
Donn of Cooley for a year and I will return him at 
the end of that time along with fifty prime heifers 
as a reward for the favor.” 

MacRoth left at once together with nine members 
of Maeve’s court, for it was not fitting that he as 
chief messenger should travel alone. 

Dairi gave him the fine welcome and asked him 
why they had journeyed thither. MacRoth told 
him, relating in full the quarrel between Ailill and 
Maeve. 

“And,” added he, “Maeve will give you fifty 
heifers as a reward if you make the loan.” 

That pleased Dairi. “By my oath,” said he, “I 
will send the Donn of Cooley to Maeve without 
delay.” 

And then he feasted macRoth and the other 
messengers. Delicious was the food served up to 
them and strong and heady the mead, but in a little 
while they began to wrangle in a drunken way and 
this conversation took place between two of them. 

“A kind host we have; a good man,” said one. 

“He’s all of that,” said the other. 

“But there is one better in Ulster.” 

“That there is. You hit the nail on the head that 
time, my boy. Conchubar is the man that is better 
than he is and ’tis no shame for the men of Ulster 
to gather ’round him. And isn’t it the great wonder 
entirely that Dairi has given us the Donn of Cooley 



208 


The Hound of Culain 


when it would take the whole strength of the four 
provinces to get it away by force?” 

“The whole strength of the four provinces, did 
you say?” and the second messenger spat on the 
floor. “I would not mind if a stream of blood came 
out of your mouth for saying the like of that. Let 
me tell you if the Donn of Cooley were not given 
us freely we’d take it by force and Dairi be hanged.” 
But they thought they were entirely alone. 

Alas for them! Dairi’s chief-steward who was 
waiting on them overheard every word they said 
and went forthwith to tell Dairi. 

“By the gods of my tribes! ” swore Dairi savagely. 
“I swear they will not get the Donn of Cooley at 
all now. Let them try to take him by force. Just let 
them try that’s all.” 

But he did not say anything to them that night. 
In the morning, however, when macRoth asked for 
the bull, he turned on him, saying, “If I were in the 
habit of treating messengers or traveling folk foully 
not one of you would go out the door alive.” 

MacRoth could not understand the change that 
had come over him overnight. “Wh—what’s the 
matter? Wh—what’s happened?” he stammered. 
“Did not the messengers say last night that unless 
I gave up the Donn of Cooley freely he would be 
taken by force?” 

“Och, they were drunk, man. ’Tis not for you 
to mind what they said and they in their cups,” 
said macRoth. 



The Cattle Raid of Cooley 209 


“Even so,” said Dairi, “I will not give up the bull 
unless I can help it.” 

When the messengers arrived back at Cruachan, 
Maeve asked how they had fared and macRoth told 
her what had happened. 

“Oh!” exclaimed Maeve, “I can see the wretch 
never intended giving the bull at all. But no matter. 
We will take him by force.” 

And with those words was the Cattle Raid of 
Cooley declared. 




CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 
The Fight with Ferdiad 


And Scatach told Cuchulain at the Cattle Raid of 
Cooley the warriors of Maeve would come against 
him and single-handed he would repulse them. 

Ordinarily Maeve would have hesitated to try 
to take the Donn of Cooley by force. It meant 
invading Ulster. It meant war; war with the strong¬ 
est province in Erin. But Fedlem of the Fairy 
People assured her the warriors of Ulster were lying 
weak and helpless under an enchantment; the 
victims of a curse. 

And the curse on the warriors of Ulster was laid 
on them by Macha of the Golden Hair many years 
before. She had been shamed by the King of Ulster 
at the time of the birth of her twin sons. It was 
then that she cursed the warriors of Ulster. 

“From this day forth the shame you have put 
upon me will be a shame unto yourselves. When 
you are endangered you will be overcome with the 
weakness of a woman in her pain and five days and 
four nights will it debilitate you; unto the ninth 
generation so shall it be.” 

And it was even so. 


210 






The Fight with Ferdiad 


211 


But Cuchulain was not descended from Ulster. 
The Sun-god was his father and for that reason 
the curse did not fall on him. Nevertheless a great 
and terrible responsibility was his. While the 
warriors of Ulster were in their weakness it be¬ 
hooved him to guard the province against the 
armies of Maeve. 

Now, when Maeve marched out of Cruachan her 
warriors were divided into three troops each of 
thirty hundred men, and the first troop had heads 
of black hair and wore gold shirts and green cloaks 
fastened with brooches of white bronze, and their 
swords had white sheaths and hilts of white bronze; 
and the second troop wore their hair cut short and 
their cloaks were grey and they had on white shirts 
and their swords were sheathed in white bronze and 
hilted with gold; and the third troop had blond 
hair and their cloaks were crimson and they wore 
gold brooches and bejewelled breast plates and 
marched in step to a stirring battle chant. 

It was not long before they came to the Ulster 
border and they encamped for the night at a place 
called Ardcullin. That night there was a great snow¬ 
fall and for once all the provinces of Erin were 
united under a common blanket; a soft, white 
blanket that rendered impossible lighting a fire 
and consequently the preparation of any food. It 
was a dispirited army therefore that plunged next 
morning into Ulster. To make matters worse they 
had not gone very far when they stumbled across 



212 


The Hound of Culain 


the headless bodies of two of their look-outs, the 
sons of Nera. Who had killed them? Maeve could 
but guess—Cuchulain! 

Cautiously they proceeded and on the morning 
of the morrow, came to a narrow mountain pass 
blocked by a freshly hewn oak. Written on the tree 
was a warning not to venture any further. Who had 
written it? Maeve could but guess—Cuchulain! 

After some deliberation she decided to send 
Fraech, son of Idath, on ahead to spy out the lay 
of the land. When he did not return she cast caution 
to the wind and at the head of her army crossed 
the oak and marched eastward. On a river bank 
they found Fraech beheaded, dead. Shortly there¬ 
after Baiscne, Maeve’s dog, was killed by a sling¬ 
shot. Then Orlam, her son, was slain in a wood 
where he had gone to cut holly poles to mend his 
chariot and it was while looking for him that the 
three sons of Garach met their death. Who was 
it that harassed them so? Maeve could but guess 
—Cuchulain! 

Still she urged her troops forward and presently 
they came to the Plain of Muirthemne, Cuchulain’s 
inheritance, where they carried off or destroyed all 
before them. Even so their triumph was short-lived. 
A river thereabouts in a state of flood caried off 
three tens of their chariots and Maeve, upon send¬ 
ing Ulla, one of her favorite warriors, to test the 
depth of the river, unwittingly caused another 
calamity, for he was swept away in the churning, 



The Fight with Ferdiad 213 

madly swirling, muddy waters. A little while later 
Raen and Rae, two warriors of the third troop, were 
struck down by twin javelins hurled by a powerful 
arm. 

Maeve was convinced then it was Cuchulain that 
harassed her. Hurriedly she dispatched messengers 
to seek him out and offer him favorable terms to 
espouse her cause. When the messengers returned 
it was with these tidings: the only terms Cuchulain 
would accept were that one of her army fight alone 
with him every day and while the fight was going 
on the rest of the army could advance unmolested 
where it liked, but so soon as he killed the warrior 
sent against him the army must halt nor move again 
till the next day. 

What else could Maeve do but accept? Better 
the devil you see than the devil you don’t see, as the 
saying goes. Cuchulain would now be out in the 
open and she need not fear that Death lurked be¬ 
hind every bush stirred by the breeze. Besides she 
felt confident the first man-sized warrior she sent 
against him would make an end of him and she 
would then be free to continue her campaign and 
seize the Donn of Cooley. 

Ah, Maeve of Cruachan, it does not pay to be 
too sure ever. You found that out, didn’t you? And 
’twas the costly experience. Etarcomal was killed 
on you and Natchrantal and Buac son of Bainblai, 
not to mention Rae the Satirist that Cuchulain’s 
spear pierced to the marrow. 



214 


The Hound of Culain 


Desperate then, she called on Ferdiad son of 
Daman son of Dairi, the terrible warrior of the Fir 
Domnann, the horn-skin from Irrus Domnann, the 
fierce, the unbeatable, the all-conquering. If he 
could not overcome Cuchulain then who could? He 
too had been schooled by Scatach and knew as many 
feats as Cuchulain and he had strong armor to pro¬ 
tect himself against any man that fought with him. 

But let us go over now to Cuchulain who with 
O’Loeg, his charioteer, awaits the arrival of Ferdiad 
at a nearby ford. Oh horrors! Can this really be 
he? What a frightening sight he is in the heat of 
his battle-fury, with the witches of the valley and 
the fairy people screaming ’round him the way he 
will look doubly fierce to Ferdiad. 

Ah, there came Ferdiad now, boastful words 
bubbling on his lips like soap in a washtub of a 
Monday. 

“O Cuchulain, why do you fight such a strong 
champion as me? Your flesh will be red with 
wounds over the steam of your horses and should 
you come through alive it is a firebrand in sore need 
of healing you will be.” 

“I have come in anger to test you in battle till 
on you comes havoc,” Cuchulain answered. “De¬ 
fend your head.” 

Whereupon they clashed. 

And they defended themselves with two equally 
matched shields. And the weapons they used were 
their eight small darts and their eight straight 



The Fight with Ferdiad 


215 


swords with ornaments of walrus-tooth and their 
eight lesser ivoried spears that flew to and fro be¬ 
tween them like bees on a day in June. And they 
fought from early morning till the mid-day sun 
flamed like a ruby overhead. And albeit excellent 
was their throwing, excellent also was their defence, 
so that during all that time neither drew any blood. 

“Let us put aside these weapons now, O Cuchu¬ 
lain,” Ferdiad suggested. “For it is not using the 
like of them the fight will be settled.” 

“What then shall we use?” Cuchulain asked. 

“Our throwing spears with the cords of hard 
flax on them.” 

And again they came together and from mid-day 
till sun-down they cast at one another with the 
spears. And albeit excellent was their defence, 
excellent also was their throwing, so that both bled 
profusely from the wounds they inflicted on one 
another during that time. 

“Let us leave off now,” said Ferdiad. “The end 
of the day is on us. We shall fight again tomorrow.” 

“Aye, let us have done,” sighed Cuchulain. 

In truth he was weary. To be fighting the livelong 
day is not the work of a suckling child. 

They slept by the ford that night and herbwomen 
came to dress their wounds and put a curing charm 
on them. In the morning they rose up. 

“What weapons today?” asked Cuchulain. 

“I chose them yesterday; ’tis your turn today,” 
said Ferdiad. 



216 


The Hound of Culain 


“That is so,” Cuchulain agreed. “Therefore let 
us use our lances, for by thrusting we may come 
nearer a decision than we did by casting. And let 
us fight from our chariots on this day.” 

Their chariots were yoked and they armed them¬ 
selves with broad shields and their well-tempered 
lances. And they began to thrust and to hack and 
to cut and to wound from daybreak to the close of 
evening. At twilight their horses were all in and 
their drivers prostrate and they themselves well 
nigh exhausted. 

“Let us leave off now,” said Cuchulain. “Our 
horses are done for, our drivers tired and when 
they are, it is no shame for us too to be spent.” 

“Let us leave off indeed,” Ferdiad assented. 

And they threw their arms down and that night 
they slept by the same fire with the healing and 
curing folk tending their wounds; nursing them the 
night long. 

Early next day they arose and Cuchulain noticed 
a dark look on Ferdiad’s face. 

“It is bad you look this day, Ferdiad,” he said. 
“There is darkness on your face this day and your 
hair has become dark and your eye drowsy and 
your upright form has gone from you.” 

“It is not from fear nor dread of you that has 
happened to me,” Ferdiad replied. “There is not 
this day in Ireland a champion I could not con¬ 
quer.” 

“You have the choice of weapons,” Cuchulain 
reminded him. 



The Fight with Ferdiad 


217 


“Aye, so I have. It is our swords we will use 
this day, for by casting and by thrusting we have 
not reached a decision.” 

And they armed themselves with great long 
shields and their heavy, hard-smiting swords, and 
they began to strike and to hew and to gash and 
to pierce and to slit, till as big as the head of a 
month old babe was each bruise and each wound 
they inflicted one on the other. And they fought 
from sun-up to sun-down but were no nearer reach¬ 
ing a decision than on the previous day. 

That night they did not sleep by the same fire. 
They drew apart sorrowful and sad and sore and 
full of suffering. 

Ferdiad was early up on the morrow and he 
went alone to the ford of combat. Something told 
him that day would decide the issue. Either one 
or both would fall. And he donned his battle suit. 

Presently Cuchulain arrived. 

“The choice of weapons is yours today,” Ferdiad 
said to him. 

“Spears,” said Cuchulain. 

“Spears it is,” agreed Ferdiad although it pained 
him to say the words. So far Cuchulain had de¬ 
stroyed every hero that came against him with a 
spear. 

Wisha, you never saw such a fight as the fight 
was fought that day. ’Twas a terrifying spectacle; 
at the same time a thrilling one, you understand. 
From dawn to mid-day they hurled their spears at 
one another and at mid-day they became filled with 



218 


The Hound of Culain 


the rage of wild men and drew close to one another. 
Cuchulain leaped up then and landed on the boss 
of Ferdiad’s shield and strove to strike off his head. 
But Ferdiad hit the shield a blow with his left 
elbow and sent him flying. He tried again but 
Ferdiad smote the shield with his knee this time 
and like an infant falling out of bed Cuchulain 
tumbled into the ford. 

O’Loeg saw that happen. “Woe is Cuchulain!” 
cried he. “Ferdiad has shaken you as an angry 
woman shakes her child. He has rinsed you as a 
cup is rinsed in a tub. He has ground you as the 
mills grind corn. He has pierced you as an awl 
bores through a plank. He has bound you as ivy 
binds a tree. He has pounced on you even as the 
hawk pounces on little birds, so that no more have 
you any right nor claim to courage nor valor nor 
a brave name, you little bit of an elf-man!” 

Fast as the wind, swifter than a swallow over 
water, with the dash of a dragon and the strength 
of a lion, Cuchulain rose up and hurled himself 
at Ferdiad for the third time. 

So close, so fierce a fight did they make, their 
heads met above, their feet below and their hands 
in the middle, over the rims and bosses of their 
shields. 

So close, so fierce a fight did they make, their 
shields split from rim to center. 

So close, so fierce a fight did they make, their 
spears bent and quivered from tip to hilt. 



The Fight with Ferdiad 


219 


So close, so fierce a fight did they make, the 
fairy people, the witches and the spirits of the 
glens and dells, screamed from the rims of their 
shields and the tips of their spears. 

So close, so fierce a fight did they make, that 
the horses of Maeve and her army ran amuck, 
bursting their chains, and their harness and the 
women and the children, the undersized and the 
weak and the mad folk that were with them, ran 
racing madly out of camp south westward. 

Of a sudden Ferdiad caught Cuchulain off guard 
and wounded him so that the ford ran red with 
his blood. Gasping with pain Cuchulain called on 
O’Loeg for a fresh spear. The one he had was 
bent beyond all recognition. O’Loeg tossed him 
one and he caught it skillfully between his toes. 

“Defend yourself, O Ferdiad!” he called in a 
voice terrible to hear. 

Ferdiad tried to cover up behind his battered 
shield, but too late. Cuchulain made a straight cast 
at him and the spear pierced his armor and buried 
itself in his body. 

Keeling, expiring, “I am smitten. I die. The 
crows and the rooks have a feast this night; they 
will pick my bones white. A triumph for you, 
O Cuchulain. A triumph for you,” Ferdiad sighed. 

Weakly Cuchulain smiled then swooned with 
pain of his wounds. 




CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 
The End of the Raid 


Meanwhile the warriors of Ulster had recovered 
from their weakness and were marching against 
Maeve. 

During the greater part of the battle which fol¬ 
lowed, Cuchulain lay ill of his wounds on a leaf 
strewn litter; O’Loeg by his side, tending his wants. 
Several times he tried to rise up but O’Loeg forced 
him back and bound him with ropes lest his wounds 
open and he bleed to death. 

“O’Loeg,” he called out then in his misery, 
“O’Loeg go, let you and bring me word of the 
battle.” 

When O’Loeg came back, “I have seen a herd 

220 






























The End of the Raid 


221 


of cattle breaking out of Maeve’s camp,” he told 
him. “Soldiers ran after it and the warriors of 
Ulster bore down on them.” 

“Woe is me and I on my back,” Cuchulain 
moaned. “That herd is the start of a great battle. 
J Tis the Donn of Cooley and his heifers that are 
in it. Go O’Loeg! Hurry O’Loeg! Stir up the 
warriors of Ulster into their battle-fury. Tell them 
it was I sent you. Tell them I will turn my face 
away from Ulster and this night perish if they suf¬ 
fer defeat.” 

So soon as the warriors of Ulster received his 
message those of them that were not already on 
the field of battle rose up and without waiting to 
put on a stitch of clothes, grabbed their weapons 
and rushed out. 

Here we must pause to correct an omission 
made purposely in order to avoid confusion. It has 
to do with the identity of the leader of Maeve’s 
army. Doubtless it will come as a surprise. Fergus 
macRogh is who it was. Yes, Fergus had quar¬ 
reled with King Conchubar. What about? To tell 
that would be to enter on another story. Suffice 
it to say as a result of the quarrel Fergus pledged 
allegiance to Maeve. 

Now when Maeve saw the warriors of Ulster 
coming against her she ordered Fergus to stop them, 
to drive them back. 

Right well did Fergus do her bidding. Once, 
twice, three times the warriors of Ulster re- 



222 


The Hound of Culain 


treated before him pell mell and in wild confusion. 

“Do not attack again, men!” cried King Con- 
chubar. “I will go alone and see who it is that 
drives us back.” 

Fergus! So it was Fergus! His rage knew no 
bounds. He poised his spear. But Fergus was too 
fast for him. Three murderous blows he rained on 
his shield and the shield screamed shrilly as if in 
pain and the warriors of Ulster screamed with it 
and the three waves of Erin answered it. 

“So it is you, Conchubar, that comes against 
me,” Fergus muttered then. 

“Aye, ’tis I!” King Conchubar cried. “The man 
that is more powerful and greater than you, more 
comely and younger than you; the man that exiled 
you from Ulster; the man that made your house 
a warren for the rat, a web for the spider, a dark 
place for the bat; the man that will overcome you 
this day and drive you back traitor that you are.” 

Fergus saw red. Lifting up his sword, he swung 
it over his head to make an end of King Conchubar 
and cut a swathe in the warriors of Ulster at one 
fell blow. 

But it was then Cormac Conloingeas, Conchu- 
bar’s son, rushed at him and threw his arms about 
his legs. 

“O Fergus,” he begged, “let you not in your 
might and great anger wipe out the whole army 
of Ulster.” 

Fergus tried to push him away. “Leave go! 



The End of the Raid 


223 


Leave go of me! I must, I will strike my three 
blows on the warriors of Ulster.” 

Cormac continued to cling to him, pleading . . . 
pleading. 

At last Fergus forebore. “Tell Conchubar to go 
back to the head of his army and I will stay my 
hand/’ he said. 

King Conchubar retired. 

Then Fergus took his sword and struck his three 
blows at the three mountains on his right, cutting 
off their tops so that to this day they are called, 
“the three bare hills of Meath.” 

In the meantime Cuchulain having heard the 
screaming of Conchubar’s shield the time Fergus 
struck it, asked O’Loeg who had dared strike those 
blows and he still living. 

“ ’Twas Fergus son of Rogh that did it,” said 
O’Loeg. 

“And where are the armies now?” Cuchulain 
asked. 

“At Gairech.” 

“By my oath they will not reach Ilgairech before 
I will be with them!” 

And despite the protests of O’Loeg, Cuchulain 
exerted himself and broke the ropes that bound him 
and threw off the herbs from his wounds and, 
rising up, began searching for his weapons. They 
were not there. Some one must have hidden them. 
Undaunted, he tore a shaft loose from his chariot 
and dashed off to the battlefield. 



224 


The Hound of Culain 


His coming put heart into the warriors of Ulster. 
With renewed vigor and vitality they entered the 
fray. 

Wielding the shaft, Cuchulain beat his way to 
Fergus. 

“Go back, Fergus!” he cried. “Go back else I 
will tear you to pieces as a hawk would a linnet.” 

“Save your threats,” blustered Fergus. “It is 
well able for you we are this day.” 

Cuchulain lashed out with the shaft. 

Fergus retreated three paces. 

Again Cuchulain swung the shaft and again Fer¬ 
gus gave way. 

When Maeve’s army saw that they lost heart 
and with the warriors of Ulster bearing down on 
them they broke ground and fled in disordered re¬ 
treat. 

Oh, what slaughter! What slaughter! 

Finally Cuchulain caught up with Maeve herself. 

“A favor to me, O Cuchulain, a favor to me,” 
she wailed. 

“What would it be?” 

“Let the rest of my army pass under the great 
ford westward under your protection.” 

“Fll grant you that,” agreed Cuchulain. 

And so what was left of Maeve’s army crossed 
the great ford of the Sionnan at Athluain and from 
thence wended its via dolor, its sorrowful way, back 
to Cruachan. 

Then did Cuchulain take his sword that O’Loeg 



The End of the Raid 


225 


brought to him and cut off the tops of the three 
rocks of Athulain so that if any one ever mentioned 
“the three bare hills of Meath,” the three bare 
rocks of Athluain would be there to give him his 
answer. 

And that was the end of the famous Cattle Raid 
of Cooley. 




CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 
The Beginning of the End 


But you must not imagine for a moment that 
Maeve forgave Cuchulain for overcoming her, de¬ 
feating her. On the contrary she determined by 
fair means or foul to bring about his downfall, his 
death even, and to that end she sent for Ere son 
of Cairbre Niafer, Lugaid son of Cu Roi macDairi 
and the three, one-eyed daughters of Calatin. 
These five hated even the ground trod by Cuchu¬ 
lain. At one time or another he had slain some 
one dear to them. Revenge was all they lived for; 
it was their one ambition. The one-eyed daughters 
of Calatin had devoted themselves to the study of 
witchcraft and enchantment. All over the world 
they wandered, gleaning secret lore, hoping one day 
to use it against Cuchulain. According to Maeve 
that day was now near at hand. 

“Do you remember all you have learned?” she 
asked them. 

“RememberI We can work a multitude of dark 
and horrible spells and by mystic words create ter¬ 
rible battles.” 


226 






The Beginning of the End 227 


“You have done well, O daughters of Calatin. 
Hold yourselves in readiness till I give the word 
and then . . .” The grim smile that compressed 
her lips at this point was more expressive than any 
further word Maeve might have spoken. 

Later she unburdened herself to Lugaid and Ere. 

“My plans are laid. We must gather together 
a great army. When it is known we march against 
Cuchulain his enemies will flock to our banner. 
There is not in the four provinces a king nor chief¬ 
tain nor warrior no matter how humble, that did 
not lose a relative or friend by him at the Cattle 
Raid of Cooley.” 

“I will go south to the king of Munster for aid,” 
Lugaid volunteered. 

“And I, I will call upon the king of Leinster,” 
Ere promised. 

Both were successful. Within a week the king 
of Munster and his army, and the king of Leinster 
and his army arrived at Cruachan. For three days 
and three nights Maeve feasted them. Then they 
began their march on Ulster, on Cuchulain. 

It was not long before King Conchubar learned 
they were plundering the border. 

“Leborcam! Where is Leborcam?” he cried. 

Leborcam, it will be remembered, was his con¬ 
versation woman. 

“I am here, O King.” 

“You are, are you?” King Conchubar looked 
deep into her eyes, impressing her with the serious- 



228 


The Hound of Culain 


ness of the situation. “Go, let you,” he ordered her, 
“go to Muirthemne and get Cuchulain. Tell him 
it is urgent; to come at once; not to tarry; not to 
linger.” 

It was on Baile’s Strand, Leborcam found him 
and he shooting at sea gulls and cormorants with 
his sling. At that he was missing them; a bad 
omen thought he; a very bad omen. When had 
he ever missed before? Never. But never! 

“I bring tidings from Conchubar,” Leborcam be¬ 
gan and she told him in as few words as possible 
about Maeve and all that was taking place. “And,” 
she added, “even though the warriors of Ulster be 
in their weakness it is not for you to go out alone. 
’Tis not a bull this is at stake this time. Tis you, 
Cuchulain. ’Tis here to Muirthemne Maeve will 
come.” 

“To Muirthemne! ” Cuchulain’s eyes flashed fire. 
“If that is the case I must stay and defend the 
place.” 

“ ’Tis best that you come to Emain Macha,” 
Leborcam reasoned. “You have friends there. Not 
a man, woman nor child in the place but what would 
cheerfully give his right arm for you.” 

Her words would have been as chaff before the 
wind had not Emer come in just then and given him 
the same advice, to proceed to Emain Macha. 

So he went and upon his arrival was shown into 
the Royal House where the women, the bards and 
the poets came and spoke sweet words to him. They 



The Beginning of the End 229 


were so solicitous of his well-being he began to sus¬ 
pect they were hiding something from him. They 
were. King Conchubar had gone off to Cooley to 
a feast at the house of Connal son of Gleo Glas 
without leaving word for him to follow after him, 
and nobody knew where to reach him. 

But before he went King Conchubar had in¬ 
structed Cathbad the Druid and the learned men 
regarding him. “I leave him in your keeping,” he 
said. “It is up to you to save him from Maeve and 
Ere and Lugaid and the one-eyed daughters of 
Calatin. Should he be killed Ulster will be no more. 
Ulster is Cuchulain. Cuchulain is Ulster.” 

Meanwhile Maeve had arrived at Muirthemne. 
Finding no trace of Cuchulain she ordered every¬ 
thing burnt or destroyed for miles around. Guess¬ 
ing that he had gone to Emain Macha, the one- 
eyed daughters of Calatin took matters into their 
own hands. Throwing a bridle on the wind they 
rode it thither. 

On the lawn before the Royal House they dis¬ 
mounted and at once began to claw the earth and 
tear the grass and by their mystic words make it 
seem as if an army was in it. 

Looking out, Cuchulain blushed for shame. An 
army so near and he in his sitting idle! Tumbling 
the couch from under him with a kick he reached 
for his sword. 

If he did Cathbad’s son, Geannan, laid hold of 
him. “Let you not be making an amadan of your- 



230 


The Hound of Culain 


self/’ he warned him. “What you see is nought 
but the witchcraft of the one-eyed daughters of 
Calatin.” 

Still and all he had a hard time of it, calming 
him; indeed if Cathbad himself had not come to 
the rescue Cuchulain would have rushed out in 
spite of all. 

Next day the one-eyed daughters of Calatin re¬ 
peated their weird rites and, looking out, Cuchu¬ 
lain imagined he saw Maeve’s army in all its ter¬ 
rible strength and on his startled, bewildered ear 
fell the magic strains of the harp of the son of 
Mangur, he that was chief musician to the Fairy 
People. He knew then that his time was come, that 
he had not much longer to live. He did not need 
to be told that Mangur’s music was the precursor 
of Death any more than those of us who hear the 
bean-sidhe today. And he sighed, thinking of his 
strength that would soon be gone from him, leav¬ 
ing him weak and useless. Then one of the daugh¬ 
ters of Calatin changed herself into a crow and 
flew over his head, mocking him. “Go out,” she 
screamed, “and save Muirthemne. Maeve is de¬ 
stroying it. Maeve is burning it. Not a stick nor 
a stone is she leaving untouched. Go out, coward! 
Go out!” 

Knowing full well that he was a target of witch¬ 
craft, nevertheless, Cuchulain was unable to con¬ 
tain himself and he would have gone out and fought 
till he dropped in his tracks had not the noise of 



The Beginning of the End 231 

the battle and the music of the harp confused him 
so that he knew not which way to turn. Then 
Cathbad came and laid a fatherly arm about his 
shoulders. 

“Raise not your hand against them,” he coun¬ 
selled him. “In another three days the power of 
their spells will be broken. Then you can go out 
if you like and the whole world will ring with your 
fame and lasting victories.” 

Another three days! Cuchulain bit his lip. He 
doubted that he could contain himself that long. 

Cathbad must have noticed his indecision, for 
he went on, “Tomorrow we will go away to the 
Deaf Valley where you will not be able to hear the 
daughters of Calatin nor the music of the Fairy 
People.” 

To this Cuchulain raised no objection. For once 
he was willing to let somebody else do his thinking 
for him. 

Into the Deaf Valley they went next day; Cuchu¬ 
lain and Cathbad and Emer and Niamh of the 
women of Ulster and many another whose name 
escapes us. 

“Ochone, ochone]’ mourned Cuchulain, “why did 
I ever come here? I will be branded a coward. 
Maeve will say it was to escape her I came.” 

“Whisth, have done, let you,” said Niamh. “You 
gave me your word you would not go against Maeve 
without leave from me.” 



232 


The Hound of Culain 


“You do well to remind me. Have no fear; I will 
not break my promise,” said Cuchulain. 

He unyoked his chariot then and turned the 
Grey of Macha and the Black of Sainglenn loose 
to graze. 

In the meantime the one-eyed daughters of 
Calatin had arrived at Emain Macha. Great was 
their fury when they found Cuchulain gone. 

“Cathbad has hidden him away from us, but 
we will find him,” they shrieked, and, seizing a 
gust of wind by the mane, they fastly rode over 
all the province looking for him. 

It was the Grey of Macha and the Black of 
Sainglenn that they saw first and they knew then 
that Cuchulain was in the Deaf Valley. Shortly 
they heard the strains of sweet music and laugh¬ 
ter and women’s voices raised in song. It was clear 
that Cuchulain’s companions were doing their level 
best to cheer him up. 

Faces purple of rage, the one-eyed daughters of 
Calatin entered the valley, taking with them as they 
went dead leaves from the trees, burrs and thistle 
stalks that they turned into warriors so that when 
they came nigh the place where Cuchulain was a 
great army, ’twould seem, marched before them. 

Emer and Niamh heard them coming and raised 
their voices to drown them out the way Cuchulain 
might not hear them. But Cuchulain heard and 
hearing cried, “Weirasthru, I hear warriors shout¬ 
ing at the top of their voices. They are laying 



The Beginning of the End 233 


waste the province. I am ruined. My fame is no 
more. My name is in the mud.” 

“Take it easy; take it easy now/’ comforted 
Cathbad. “ ’Tis only the one-eyed daughters of 
Calatin weaving their enchantments to lure you 
forth.” 

Cuchulain clenched his fists. His battle-fury was 
beginning to stir in him. But knowing Cathbad 
spoke the truth he refrained from action. 

It was then that Badb, the eldest of the one- 
eyed daughters of Calatin, lost her temper. “Keep 
on making the sounds of fighting,” she bade her 
sisters. “I am going to speak to Cuchulain even 
though he kill me.” 

Putting on herself the appearance of one of 
Niamh’s handmaidens, she called to Niamh, pre¬ 
tending she wished to speak to her. 

Alas for Niamh! Before she realized what was 
happening Badb had led her down the valley and 
shrouded her in a heavy mist the way she could 
not find her way back to Cuchulain. 

Then Badb went back, taking upon herself the 
fair form of Niamh. 

“Cuchulain!” she cried, feigning alarm. “Ulster 
is being destroyed. If it is to be saved at all you 
must rise up and go out and give battle to Maeve.” 
But Cuchulain was depressed at the thought. 

“Woe is me,” sighed Cuchulain. “You made me 
promise not to go and now you would have me go; 
now when ’tis too late maybe.” Rising up he threw 



234 


The Hound of Culain 


his cloak about him but as he was fastening it with 
a brooch, the brooch fell and pierced his foot. 

“A bad omen! A bad omen!” everybody wailed. 

“True.” Cuchulain accepted it philosophically. 
“The brooch is my friend. It gives me warning.” 

With that he went out and bade O’Loeg yoke 
up. But the Grey of Macha would not let O’Loeg 
come near him. 

“This,” muttered O’Loeg, “is a bad sign, an evil 
sign,” and he went and told Cuchulain. 

Cuchulain’s eyes clouded over. The net was 
drawing tighter and tighter around him. There 
was no escape. Yet he went out himself to catch 
the Grey. And he spoke to him coaxingly, “For 
why do you do this to me? ’Tis not your habit to 
fail me and I in sore need of your aid.” 

The Grey came up close to him and Cuchulain 
saw that his eyes were filled with tears, tears of 
blood that fell at his feet. He could not trust him¬ 
self to say another word. Silently, with a lump 
burning in his throat, he yoked the Grey and the 
Black of Sainglenn and away with him. 

Southward he went along the Meadhon Luachair 
road, leaving Emer broken-hearted, for she knew 
he would never come back. 




CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 
The Passing of Cuchulain 


And Scatach the woman-warrior told Cuchulain 
one other thing the time she foretold his future. 
He would die a noble death, she said. Did he? 
Read. Read, let you. 

On his way southward he met up with three old 
hags. He did not know that human beings—if such 
indeed they were—could be so ugly. And the sight 
was gone from the left eye of each of them. They 
had built a fire by the roadside and were roasting 
a dog on rowantree spits the while they muttered 
curses and evil spells. Cuchulain would fain have 
passed them by. But they called out to him. 

“Visit a while with us, O mighty Cuchulain!” 

235 































































236 


The Hound of Culain 


“I have no time for visiting today.” 

“If it were roast ox you would find time. Just 
because we are poor and needs must eat dog there 
is the great hurry entirely on you.” 

Ever democratic, Cuchulain resented this remark 
and to prove it was not so he had O’Loeg pull up. 
One of the hags then gave him a shoulder bone of 
the dog out of her left hand. He ate it out of his 
left hand and afterwards held the bone down by 
his left side. He had but done so when his left 
arm and side were paralyzed; withered and para¬ 
lyzed. Furiously, he turned on the hags. They 
were gone, they’d vanished. It is hard to say for 
sure, but we suspect they were the one-eyed daugh¬ 
ters of Calatin. 

Onward Cuchulain drove along the Slieve Mid- 
luachra and ’round Slieve Fuad. There it was that 
Ere, son of Cairbre Niafer, caught sight of him. 

“Cuchulain is coming!” he cried at the top of his 
voice. “Get ready to meet him.” 

Cuchulain is coming! Once that cry would have 
instilled terror into the hearts of Maeve’s army, but 
now they quickly made a fence of their shields un¬ 
der Erc’s direction. At each corner of the fence 
Ere placed two warriors and a druid. The warriors 
were to pretend to be fighting, the druids inter¬ 
vening. Moreover, if he came up to them the druids 
were to ask Cuchulain for his spear, for it had been 
prophesied that a king would be slain by it unless 
it were given when asked for. Then Ere made the 



The Passing of Cuchulain 237 

whole army utter a terrifying cry to frighten Cuchu¬ 
lain. 

But paralyzed and beset by evil omens as he was 
Cuchulain charged, wielding his sword and spear to 
such good advantage that heads and arms and 
hands and legs and feet went flying in all direc¬ 
tions to the four corners of the plain of Muirthemne 
and grey was the field with brains. 

Suddenly he saw two of the warriors Ere had 
told to feign fighting. The druid asked him to inter¬ 
vene, to stop them. With a wild cry he leaped on 
them and with two blows of his fist laid them low. 

“Now, give me your spear,” said the druid. 

“Maeve’s men are upon me. I am attacking 
them and will not give it up,” Cuchulain replied. 

“I will put a curse on you,” threatened the druid. 

Whereupon Cuchulain hurled the spear at him, 
handle foremost, and it pierced the druid’s head 
and nine others in line behind him. 

After that Cuchulain charged the army again. 
But Lugaid picked up his spear. 

“Who will fall by this spear?” he asked the one- 
eyed daughters of Calatin. 

“A king will fall by it.” 

Lugaid grinned evilly and hurled it at Cuchu- 
lain’s chariot. It missed. It missed Cuchulain. 
But it found O’Loeg. Poor O’Loeg. Poor faithful 
O’Loeg. 

“Ochone,” he whispered in his pain, “ ’tis a mor¬ 
tal wound.” 



238 


The Hound of Culain 


Cuchulain bent down and kissed him. O’Loeg 
sank back. Then Cuchulain drew the spear out 
of him. 

“Today I must be a charioteer as well as a war¬ 
rior/’ he muttered forlornly. 

A little while later he saw another pair of Erc’s 
warriors fighting. He did not wait for the druid to 
ask him to intervene this time. Rushing at them he 
dashed them to pieces against a rock. 

“Give me your spear/’ demanded the druid. 

“I gave it once to my sorrow; I’ll not do so again/’ 
refused Cuchulain. 

“I will revile Ulster for your refusal/’ said the 
druid. 

“Ulster will never be reviled on my account.” 
So saying Cuchulain hurled the spear at him and 
it went through his head and nine others behind 
him. 

It was Ere that retrieved it. 

“Who will fall by this spear?” he asked the one- 
eyed daughters of Calatin. 

“A king will fall by it.” 

“You told that to Lugaid.” 

“We told no lie. A king fell; a king of chariot¬ 
eers.” 

Then Ere made his cast. It missed. It missed 
Cuchulain. But it found the Grey of Macha. 
Cuchulain’s heart almost broke. But he bade the 
Grey farewell and drew the spear out of him. With 
stumbling steps the Grey plodded off across the 



The Passing of Cuchulain 239 

plain towards Glas-linn, the grey pool in Slieve 
Fuad. 

Cuchulain watched him out of sight before at¬ 
tacking another pair of fighting warriors. Like the 
others he killed them and the druid then demanded 
his spear. 

“I will not give it up,” said Cuchulain. 

“I will put a bad name on your kindred,” shouted 
the druid. 

“Word that I have been given a bad name will 
never go back there where I am never going back. 
There is little life left in me.” 

And Cuchulain hurled the spear and it went 
through the druid’s head and through three times 
nine men in back of him. 

Lugaid picked up the spear. 

“Who will fall by this spear, O daughters of 
Calatin?” 

“A king will fall by it.” 

“That is what you told Ere a while back.” 

“We spoke the truth. A king fell; the king of 
the steeds of Erin, the Grey of Macha.” 

With all his might Lugaid made his cast. Straight 
and true was his aim. He did not miss. With a 
groan Cuchulain sank down on the chariot cushion, 
desolated by the thought. 

Lugaid, Ere and the warriors of Maeve crowded 
around him. At last the hound of Culain was down! 

“I—I would like to go to yon pool for a drink,” 
he gasped. 



240 


The Hound of Culain 


“You may go if you promise to come back here,” 
they granted him. 

“If I cannot come back you must come for me.” 

Staggering, clutching his gaping wound he went 
towards the pool. 

There he drank his last drink and laved for the 
last time. Feeling then, that he could no longer 
stand up, he dragged himself over to a stone pil¬ 
lar by the side of the pool and tied himself to it 
so that when his foes came they would find him on 
his feet, facing them. 

They came at last. 

“Let us cut off his head,” Ere said. 

Lugaid and the others were about to agree when 
the sound of hoofbeats rang out over the plain. 
It was the Grey of Macha come back to defend 
his master with his last breath. Rearing and plung¬ 
ing and with blood streaming, gushing from him, 
he attacked them. Fifty fell by his teeth alone; 
thirty from each hoof. Gallant animal! He could 
do no more. Still gnashing his teeth, he fell, rolled 
to one side and lay still. 

A moment later, Lugaid approached Cuchu- 
lain. Roughly he pushed back his golden hair, 
baring his neck. There was a gleam of steel, a 
spurt of blood and the greatest hero that ever lived 
had gone to that shadowy land beneath the lakes 
of Killarney that the Irish call Tir-na-n-og. 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 


Cross, Tom Peete 
& 

Slover, Clark Harris, Ancient Irish Tales. 

(Edited by) 

Gregory, Lady Augusta, Cuchulain oj Muirthemne. 
O’Grady, Standish, The Coming oj Cuchulain. 

-, The Triumph of Cuchulain. 

-, The Passing of Cuchulain. 

Wood-Martin, W. G., Traces of the Elder Faiths of Ireland. 


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